


A Lesson in Loyalty

by crowscrow (orphan_account)



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Choices, Drama, Friendship, Handstand, Los Santos, Love, M/M, Pole Dancing, Ponsonbys, Romance, Sandy Shores, Swimming, pools, serenades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowscrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael has to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again. Thanks so much for everyone who followed the past two installments of this little three piece deal. If anyone has any fan art at all let me know, I absolutely love seeing that stuff. Thanks to anyone who's made any as well. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Story Title: A Lesson in Loyalty  
> Universe: Canon  
> Word Count: 16,125  
> Genre: Romance/Drama  
> Characters: Michael De Santa, Trevor Philips  
> Pairings: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips, Michael De Santa/Amanda De Santa  
> Chapter rating: M/E  
> Summary: Michael has to choose.  
> Warnings: Language, adult themes, sexual content, slash  
> Disclaimer: Characters, quotes, themes, etc © Rockstar and © other people, places, etc. No financial gain is made.  
> Fanfiction.net: crowscrow  
> R&R

 

 

Contentment. The state of being contented, i.e. peace of mind.

That was the name of the game. Always had been. And it had taken him a lifetime’s worth of pursuing.

But finally, after _years_ of searching, Michael De Santa, Michael _Townley—_ bank robber, liar, thief, betrayer— _finally_ , he’d come to know the meaning of the word. For him, it meant letting go those small, silly inhibitions, it meant living without the feeling of guilt settling in his gut. It meant being honest with himself. It meant friendship.

And so, he retired once more. Only this time he was happy.

Well… for the most part.

Amanda and the kids were the same. Tracy fought with her mother about the homeless boy she wanted to have stay in the house, or about the tramp stamp she thought she had a human right to etch forever into her skin. Jimmy passed the hours engaged with his shooter video games, cursing the other players and yelling at them to suck on his balls or to go fuck their faggot boyfriends because _clearly_ they were gay by the way they played. And Amanda… well, Amanda was always going to be Amanda, always with the yoga and balanced center and the Tai Chi, lemon grass shots and organic, fruit-blended smoothies, tight stretch pants and pink tank tops.

God knew he loved her.

Their habitual expression of this alone could make him the happiest man in the world, and for that he was incredibly thankful, though if asked he wouldn’t lie—he could do with more head.

But hey, all things considered, life was good. Hell, _better_ than good. Grand even. Yet… something was missing, something brash and genuine, something that contrasted the falsity of Vinewood, Los Santos like a good pair of beige, pleated chinos contrasted a navy, Polo shirt.

He realized, after a few weeks of gradual dullness, what that something was.

Trevor.

Dear, Jesus, _why?_

After the Union Depository, Lester had split everyone’s cut into their respective accounts, and Michael had only seen Trevor _once_ in the span of time between the completed heist and the three weeks of sunshiny monotony thereafter.

They’d gone to a bar. Michael had asked for his friend’s forgiveness, to which he was then granted, and the two had spent the night drinking and laughing and howling about old times, good and bad, about how respectable a kid Franklin was, about how unknowingly awesome it had been that Bradley Snider had actually taken the bullet back in the day, about how fucking hilarious Steve Haines had looked in the footage Lester had hacked from the camera man’s recordings on the Farris wheel at Del Perro Pier after Trevor had sniped his sorry ass.

Yes, it was a good time, and surely notable, as their friendship had been strained ever since their reunion. Michael had wanted to remedy that as well, and so promised Trevor his entire share of the money from the Depository. Yet, not in the least bit impressed, Trevor had simply waved it off as if the gift were an offered bite of a hamburger, saying it was never about the money.

Michael knew this. He’d _always_ known this. But he was still taken aback by how little the money meant. In truth, it would be known that nothing was more significant to Trevor than that confession—that, above all else, Michael had yearned for his pardon.

Michael could remember that evening clearly. The smile that spread across Trevor’s scared and rugged features stunned him. A real, genuine smile. It was insane how attractive Trevor could actually be when those perpetually scowling lips managed to cast off the woes of that sad life and let their corners curl, just a teensy bit. His teeth were yellowed and cavity ridden, no doubt, but Michael had still wanted to kiss him.

So he had.

Trevor had stared, a look of confusion and pain and anger in his brown eyes. That was when he’d taken Michael home. Michael hadn’t seen him since.

But now, aware of how important friendship was, to receive companionable connection and to give it in return, well, Michael knew he had to integrate Trevor back into his life. Which meant confronting Amanda. Which meant yelling and screaming and lamps being thrown. Which meant him sleeping on the couch. Which meant disturbance to the delicate equilibrium that was his already shaky marriage.

It had dawned on him as he sat reclined on the couch that very evening that he could lose it all; and yet he’d been sure the situation was more right than wrong. Trevor _belonged_ in his life. He _belonged_ in Jimmy’s life, in Tracy’s, as their uncle and mentor (maybe not so much), and friend.

Trevor had never, ever hurt them, _would_ never hurt them, and Michael—with more courage than he actually felt—pointed this out to his upset wife the following morning, taking Trevor’s side despite the threat of divorce. Their fight had ended with Michael pleading, saying that it was necessity, that it was need—he _needed_ to be a good friend, a loyal friend, no matter that friend’s moral standings.

This action had noticeably startled Amanda, and like the sun at last breaking beyond a jagged horizon, she relented.

 _Because I love you,_ she’d said. _But I swear to you, Michael, if he so much as sneezes on one of the children, he’s gone from our lives for good. And you as well._

Promises aren’t all that hard to keep, but even he felt a tightening in his throat when giving his word that her fears were unprecedented, that even Trevor was able to be controlled.

Pft. Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay.

Still, he was confident it would turn out alright. Besides, Amanda would never be present when Trevor was around. Michael would see to it they would in no possible way cross paths. It was essential—he wasn’t crazy enough to let his current lover and his former lover accidently meet under the same roof, lest he have a deathly cat fight on his hands in where Amanda was maybe a bobcat and Trevor a fucking lion. Two fat guesses who’d come out on top in _that_ situation. And then those deep, dark, predatory eyes would be on _him_ , and last time he checked, he was no lion tamer.

So it was settled, then. Take house, minus Amanda, add Trevor, divide by whiskey, times Trace and Jim, equaled Michael having a relatively fun day by the pool. And hey, Amanda was gone until later that evening, the kids were lazing around the house, bored. Everything lined up.

With this mapped out, Michael decided today was as good a day as any.

He reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shorts while pouring himself a glass of that aforementioned whiskey and pressed the screen of his new smart phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Michael’s brows creased. After the fourth time it went to a strange voicemail of a woman, her voice low, then suddenly louder.

“Oh yeah, _baby_ , you’ve reached the voicemail of Trevor Maurice Philips, founder, owner and president of _T.P. Enterprises_ ,” she said in a moan. “Mr. Philips isn’t hear right now, but if you leave your name and number, him and his _big cock_ will return your—”     

Trevor’s distinctive tone cut her off mid-sentence. “You know _damn well_ it ain’t that big, you fucking _liar_.”

And then the beep. Michael shook his head but left a message regardless. “Hey, T. Listen, I wanted to see if you, uh… well, if you’d like to swing by today and maybe hang here at the house. Figured you might want to see the kids… um… Amanda’s out, won’t be back until tonight… Anyway, I uh… I miss ya’. Give me a call back and—”

His phone buzzed against his ear. He pulled it away to see the caller and grinned, tapping the green button. “The hell took you so long?” he asked, chuckling.

Ragged breathing could be heard from the other end. Michael almost wished he hadn’t asked.

Trevor wheezed. “ _Wheeeew_ , oh man, sorry, M, I… I was… _whew_ … I was, uh… I was… fucking.”

“You were ‘fucking’?”

“Yep.” Trevor coughed into the receiver and panted some more. “But, ya’ know, saw you rang and, ah, lost my _erection_.”

“Yeah, well, meth’ll do that to ya’. It’s called impotence.”

Trevor let out a deep, raspy, rather irritated laugh and asked, “Did you call just to pass more judgment on my lifestyle, sugar-tits? Or do you actually _want_ something?”

“Hey,” Michael said. “I thought we were past that.”

Trevor was silent for a few beats, then laughed loudly, a hyena’s cackle. It made Michael jump.

“Right!” the madman yelled. “ _Of course_! We _are_ , aren’t we? Musta’ slipped my mind, us _kissing_ and _making_ _up_ and all that.”

Michael’s brow rose. “Yeah… well, you wanna’ come over? The kids—”

“The kids! Oh my god, the kids, _the kids_!”

“Yes. The kids. They’re here and—”

“I got stuff for ‘em. Presents from Uncle T! I should swing by and give ‘em to ‘em. And hey, haven’t seen your _fat ass_ in a while either. Might be good to do some catchin’ up. Well, you gonna’ invite me over or what, chubby?”

Michael was momentarily blindsided. The unexpected chink of ice breaking in his glass shook him from his speechlessness, but by then Trevor had already supplemented an answer.

“Alrighty-roo, Mikey-boy, I’ll be over in two shakes! Just gotta’ dump this _stiff_ and I’ll be at your place faster than you can blow a load into your handy-dandy, my-wife-doesn’t-have-sex-with-me-anymore jizz sock.”

Besides the obvious alarm at the implication of Trevor screwing a _stiff_ (which he forced out of his mind), Michael’s anger flared at the man’s unwarranted insolence, but before he could bark a response the line went dead. His lips set firmly. This might not have been the best idea.

Three glasses of whiskey later and his doubt melted, trickling from his wits like the condensation from his cold glass. An hour and a half had come and gone. He was certain Trevor was close by the way he drove; perhaps another fifteen/twenty minutes tops. He decided a change of clothes was appropriate, so he leapt up the stairwell two steps at a time, swaying some, marching through the door of the master bedroom and into the large, walk-in closet he and Amanda shared. Inside, his wardrobe abounded. Jackets and suits and sweaters and Polos, loafers and chinos and shorts and sunglasses. He had more clothing then he could remember, but still he wanted to go to Ponsonbys and grab another pair of dress shoes on account of his newest pair being scuffed. When had he become such a materialist? He shrugged and smiled at himself in the full-length mirror before digging out a pair of simple, off-white shorts and a black tank top.

After zipping up, he caught a flash of a dress poking out from its hanger. Curiosity made him reach to feel the fabric, and he realized Amanda, with the slew of dresses she already owned, had never worn this one. It was nice. Thigh length, square neckline, inch-wide straps that split at the shoulders and met the sexy, scooped back. The material was forgiving and yet he could tell it would mold to the contours of its wearer’s body, emphasizing every plane and curve as if it were a second skin.

He bit at his lip. Amanda would look real good in that dress.

Pulling it from the hanger, he laid it out on the small couch set in front of the opposite wall. It draped the white patterned textile, a contrast too perfect to ignore. And Michael thought, well… I have a few minutes. Why the hell not?

He unzipped his shorts and freed his length from the constraints of his briefs, palming himself while he gazed at the garment, eyes half-lidded. Yes, Amanda would look real nice in that dress. Hell that dress would look good on just about anybody. A busty stripper. A bookish librarian. A pretentious hipster. Trevor.

Michael instantly flinched at the thought, his hand ceasing its movement, his eyes going wide. Where the fuck had _that_ come from?

It was a bad thought. A bad, bad thought. And yet… that solid figure, those hard shoulders, the slitted straps of the dress spanning the length of those tense trapezius muscles, the scooped back riding low, accentuating the slight point of those jutting hips and the curve of that shapely rear.

One had to admit, despite the crags, there was something irresistible in Trevor’s physical appearance, an undeniable element that made him weirdly desirable. If it weren’t for the drugs and the harsh lifestyle Trevor would have been quite the handsome man, but all this was merely external, and funny enough, Michael didn’t really care about that. No, to Michael, the most appealing attribute Trevor possessed was not what was on the outside, but what lay on the inside; and that was a desperate, voracious, and unbelievably tragic soul that needed to _love_ and _be loved_.

Trevor was a flame that burned endlessly.

And it was a very well-known fact that _that_ flame, that ferocious lion of a man, had once been his. To have control of such a person, to so be highly thought of by someone so dangerous… maybe it was too much for him then. That adoration had been intense, but now… too much had changed between them. Michael was no longer an object of worship. He missed it.

Embarrassed, he peered down at the floor, but his hand started up again in spite of his discomfort and soon he was palming himself so vigorously it almost hurt. To hell with it, he thought. Trevor had provided a sexual release for him back in the day. Sexual _freedom_. No shame in that, even if he wasn’t into guys. And the bedroom door was shut. The blinds were drawn. He had time. It was just him… just him, that sexy little number on the two-seater couch, and the imprinted image of the man he had once owned filling it. He closed his eyes. His fingers were like a garrote around his length. That hole had been so fucking tight…

Someone whistled.

Michael jerked to a halt at the sound and quickly tucked himself away, shock contorting his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the door leading to the bedroom. Trevor leaned against the frame.

“What‘cha dooooin’?”

Michael scowled, angered at being caught off guard. “The fuck it _look_ like I’m doing? I was _yankin’_ it, _asshole_.”

“Ooh, no, no, no, no, _noooo_ ,” Trevor said. “You weren’t just yankin’ it, Mikey-boy. You were _beating_ it. Daaamn. Does Amanda know?”

“ _What_?” Michael asked, annoyed.  

“Does she _know_? I mean, God, that shit can be a big problem in a marriage, amigo. One day you’re pounding the shit outta your cock without a care and the next thing you know you can’t get off to just anything anymore. She goes down on you, right? And it ain’t good enough—she rides you, it doesn’t do the trick. Then you realize _shit_ , she can’t compare to that hand. I mean, she was probably tight in her prime, but two kids later and she’s definitely a loosey-goosey down there, am I right?”          

“HEY!” Michael said. He seized Trevor by the neck and shoved him back against the wall, other hand raised. “You talk shit about my wife _one more time_ and I’ll smack you in the mouth so hard your fuckin’ _teeth’ll_ be sore.”

Trevor cleared his throat, smiled, and gave a thumbs up. “Got it,” he rasped.

“Alright then,” Michael said, calmer. He let Trevor go, running a hand threw his disheveled hair. He wasn’t sure what to expect next but it certainly wasn’t for Trevor to slip by him for the little couch.

“Oooh, what’s this?” Trevor fingered the fabric of the dress, taking it by the straps and holding it against himself as if he were about to try it on. He looked down and made a thoughtful sound.

Michael was mortified.

“ _Baaad_ Mikey. Thinkin’ ‘bout your lil’ wifey all dressed up like a _tramp_. You know what’d look good with this? Fishnet stockings and a pair of red heels.” He tossed the dress at Michael, grinning. “You’ll bust a nut faster than a nutcracker.”

Gulping, Michael forced a smile. It seemed Trevor was non-the-wiser to the rogue painting his cheeks, but he couldn’t be sure. He could _never_ be sure with Trevor.  

“Glad you could come by,” was all he could think of to say.

Trevor whirled around, his smile so broad his yellow teeth could be seen. “Course! Now where the fuck’s your lousy kids, I got shit for ‘em.”

Michael meant to respond that the kids were in their separate rooms, but Trevor marched for the door, shouting “Bring a pair a swim trunks, too!” before Michael could formulate a sound. With the perfunctory movements of a robot, Michael took his own bathing suit from its spot along the closet shelf and followed his deranged friend, pausing momentarily to make sure his pants were fully zipped. Half-way out into the hall it became apparent that Jim and Tracey were aware of their noisy uncle’s presence. They flocked to him, greeting him like two dogs greeting their anticipated owner.

“Oh my _Gawd_ , Uncle Trevor, we _missed_ you!”

“Hey, Uncle T, it’s your boy Jizzle— _whaz’ up_!”

Each received their respective hugs from their uncle, though Jim was noticeably on edge as Trevor approached him. After the hugging, Trevor ran down the stairwell, his voice full of promise and excitement as he shouted for them to follow. Jim and Tracey were on his heels without so much as a ‘you coming, dad?’, but Michael trailed after them, one footstep at a time rather than two or three. In the foyer, he looked on with quiet joy. Trevor enthusiastically kissed Tracey atop her blonde head and Michael’s smile softened even more with the thought that flitted across his mind; that guy woulda’ been a loving father.

Jim’s sudden, startled outburst made Michael snap back to the scene at hand, himself startled when Trevor dropped a small black gadget into Jimmy’s palm. It was a remote key.

“Y-y-you got me a Lamborghini?!”

Michael tried to interject. “Whoa, T, that’s uh… well, that’s more of an advanced car, I don’t know if—”

“The kid’s nearly _twenty-one_ ,” Trevor barked back. “What, you gonna’ let him serve our country but ya ain’t gonna’ buy him a fucking _car_?”

Michael paused, then realized he was beaten. He gave the same shrug he gave when knowing the jig was up.

“I want a _Lamborghini_!” Tracey whined, but she was ignored as Jim praised his gift.

“Aw, this is so fucking AWESOME,” Jim said, pacing with the sophisticated key held up in both his hands, “oh my God, oh my God, oh man, I’m gonna’ drive this bitch up and down Lo—”

He was cut off when Trevor seized his shirt, yanking him in close. Trevor’s eyes were narrowed and he looked firm. “Don’t be stupid. Wear your _seat belt_. And if I catch you _speeding_ or _drunk_ or on the _side of the road_ I will personally dismantle that car and make you watch while I burn it DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, BOY?!

Jim stood up tall, and Michael was blown away by the amount of obedience and respect in his son’s posture. “Yes, sir!” he replied.

“Good. Dismissed!” Trevor said.

“Whoa, wait, Jim, don’t be gone long,” Michael called after his son. “We’re gonna’ hang out by the pool—Trace, you, me, Uncle T. All of us. Spend some family time together.”

“Ah, let ‘em go,” Trevor said. His expression was serene at the mentioning of family.

“I’ll be right back, Pops, I swear, I’m just gonna’ take it around the block, I promise!”

Jim bolted out the front door. Michael was about to shoot Trevor a sour look for the inappropriateness of his gift—Jim didn’t have a job, wasn’t responsible, and damn well hadn’t earned it—but Trevor was already working on Tracey.

“Why does Jimmy get a _Lamborghini_ ,” she complained to her uncle. “He just sits up in his room playing _video games_ all day and calling me a _bitch_ and he’s a total _douche-bag_! I don’t even have a car of my own! Oh my God, he’s just gonna’ _crash_ it and _ruin_ it and— _I want a Lamborghini_!

In hearing this incessant bellyaching, Michael was about to yell at his bleach-blond daughter, but Trevor put a finger to his lips and said in a gentle tone, “Shhh, baby girl, I got’chu somethin’ _better_.”

Michael snorted. “Better than a Lamborghini? Yeah, I’d like to see that.”

“You wanna’ _shut up_ , Michael?” Trevor said and glared. He looked to Tracey again, an adoring smile replacing the ugly frown he had given Michael, and pulled a picture out from his rear, jean pocket. Opening the folded picture, he held it up for her to see. She was silent, her expression blank as she gazed at the image.

Wanting to know what it was that had made his obnoxious daughter speechless, Michael craned his neck to see. It was an elegant, chestnut colored horse. Michael’s brows creased at the sight. He made a _pft_ sound and motioned at the picture.

“What, a horse? _Really_? She ain’t gonna’ want a horse over a—”

Tracey’s high-pitched scream made Michael put his hands against his ears and wince. She snatched the picture from her uncle, bouncing up and down. Trevor laughed. When she could finally formulate words she screamed, “OH MY GOD, ITS A PONY! I LOVE IT, I LOVE IT, I LOVE IT, OH MY GOD, THANK YOU UNCLE TREVOR, THANK YOOOOU!”

“ _Tracey_ ,” Michael snapped. “Take it _down_ a few notches. Fuckin’ A.”

Despite her father’s command, Tracey continued to freak out. She threw her arms around her uncle, chanting ‘thank you’ over and over again. Trevor grinned and hugged her in return. Michael was confused.

“I didn’t know she liked horses,” he said. “Hell, I didn’t know _you_ knew she liked horses.”

Trevor let Tracey down and rolled his eyes. “Every girl likes _horses_ , Mikey. And this isn’t just a horse, it’s a _mare_ and it’s a _Morgan_.”

“She’s beautiful,” Tracey swooned.

“ _You’re_ beautiful, princess,” Trevor added. “Now, make sure you’re on your best behavior when you show up for your lessons, little lady.”

Tracey squealed and bounced again, hugging Trevor around his neck and planting three quick kisses on his scarred cheek. “Thank you, Uncle T!” she said.

Michael tried not to scowl. “Yeah, thanks a bunch, Uncle T.”

“I’m gonna’ go put my bathing suit on so we can go _swim_ ming!” Tracey said and ran up the stairwell.

Michael watched her go, observing the excitement in her step, the smile plastered to her pretty face. Surprising it was to find her a lively little girl once again, and not a sexually active, well-endowed, rather naïve young woman. As her father, it was always hard knowing he had to let her go at some point, let her be a woman and not his little Tracey, but damn if Trevor didn’t bring out the pig-tail headed youngster she had once been, and Michael couldn’t help but feel resentful. He glowered in the other man’s direction. Trevor was all smiles.

“Well, aren’t you just ‘dad of the year’,” Michael said.

He started to walk away, picking up his swim suit from the bottom step, but Trevor caught his arm.

“Jealous Michael,” he said, purring. “There is no _limit_ to your jealousy, is there? But no. No need to fret, sugar—ole’ Trev didn’t forget about ‘chu.” His hand reached to his back pocket once more, presenting a small, tattered rose. It was deep red, like it had been so long ago, but half of it appeared bleached by the sun and it was missing the glass tube it had originally been purchased in.

Michael blinked. “Is that—”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence. The kiss was firm, yes, but the care and subtle tenderness was not lost on him. It was everything a kiss should be, a euphoric, tangible articulation of anything and everything romantic, an expression of longing and desire, not only of the physical, but of the mental and spiritual. It deepened and Michael lost all sense of himself. He was filled with Trevor, with the taste of his saliva, of beer and stale breath, of his lips and his tongue and his teeth…

Then it was gone.

In a stupor, Michael opened his eyes, his heart beating against his ribs, his cheeks flushed and hot. He couldn’t think, but instinctively raised his hand to touch his lips with the pads of his fingers. They were wet. Glancing down, he saw himself standing in the foyer of his lovely Los Santos mansion, the bathing suit he’d been holding absent from his grip, replaced by the dusty old rose.  He looked at his friend. Trevor smirked.

“By the way,” Trevor said, moving in close to Michael’s ear, “that little glass tube? I smoked a _shit_ ton a’ meth outta’ it. Thanks, bud.” He thumped Michael on the chest with his palm. He then held up Michael’s bathing suit. “Oh—gonna’ have to borrow these, doll. Although, they might fall straight to my ankles, _am I right_?!”

The wild guffaw that came from his mouth made the sweet kiss they had shared not a minute before near unbelievable. He swaggered off through the kitchen towards the backyard, undressing himself as he went, and when Michael had come to his senses he followed, gathering up the discarded, dirty articles so Tracey wouldn’t see.

When Jimmy peeled into the driveway, and when Tracey had donned her polka-dotted bikini, the four of them took to the pool, but Michael opted to dangle his feet from the sidelines rather than dive in. Trevor goaded him, but he didn’t fall for it. In the end, the siblings and their rowdy uncle left Michael alone in pursuit of more interesting things, such as splashing one another and seeing who could do the longest underwater handstand. Trace and Jim eventually drifted to the deep end where they each took turns leaping off the edge while Trevor chucked a tennis ball for them to catch. It was peaceful, watching the three of them bicker and laugh and yell. Michael leaned back on his palms, soaking up the mid-day sun and noting—to his utter delight—how Trevor fit his bathing suit a little better than anticipated. That made him happy.

After a while, Tracey announced her plans to meet with friends and went upstairs to change. Jim wandered into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. Michael continued to laze by the pool in one of the lounge chairs, feet kicked up, sunglasses shading his eyes, ice cold whiskey held in his limp hand. He was on the verge of falling asleep when he heard the distinct sound of water moving and splashing. Wet feet slapped loudly against the concrete and Michael’s eyes shot open, but to his amazement Trevor was standing on the opposite side of the pool and not hovering over him as expected. With an edge of both strength and grace, Trevor dove into the water and swam like a fish until reaching the shallow end. He breeched the surface and flicked his head, sprinkling droplets from his eyelashes and hair.

Michael raised his sunglasses.

There was no denying the pose exhibited, subtle though it was. Michael could tell. Trevor stood arching his back, raking what little hair he had through his fingers and wiping the water from his closed eyes. It was a blatant attempt at looking sexy. But the tattoos and scars adorning his torso made Michael frown. They were awful and sad, yet exotic. He wanted to touch them.

Right then Trevor sniffed hard and spat, and just like that Michael’s soft emotions towards his long time running buddy were repelled.

“You’re gonna’ be a prune, you stay in there any longer,” he said, leaning forward.

“Always caring,” Trevor replied.

Michael glared. “ _Don’t_.”

“Swimming is like flying, M,” Trevor explained calmly. He crouched until the water was up to his chin. “But when you’re swimming, your body becomes the vessel that propels you. You’re free and weightless…” He slinked towards the edge, elbows lifting to cross the decorated, stone rim of the pool. He rested his cheek into his arms, an impish gleam in his faded, brown eyes. “ _Weightless_ , Mikey…”

“Fuck you,” Michael said and laid back into his lounge chair.

Trevor barked a rough laugh.

At that moment, Tracey wandered outside, her smart phone glued to her hand.

“ _Byyye_ , _Daaad_ ,” she said without looking up. “ _Byyye_ , _Uncle T_ , thank you _sooo_ much!”

Michael, without looking up either, waved his acknowledgement, but this routine was brutally interrupted by an angry sounding Trevor.

“And just _where_ do you think you’re going dressed like _that_?”

Michael glanced up to see his daughter dressed in her typical midriff, tie top blouse and ultra-short shorts. It might have been a little more skin than necessary but Los Santos was Los Santos and young girls were young girls. He wanted to say as much but Trevor spoke over him.

“You’re not going _anywhere_ in that outfit, sweetheart,” he said, stepping from the pool.

Tracey giggled as if her uncle was joking, but Trevor’s expression remained firm. She spread her hands in a gesture of question. “Are you _serious_?”

“ _Dead_ ,” Trevor replied.

The inevitable argument thus commenced. Michael was nervous at first, but for whom he wasn’t exactly sure. Trevor was scary, yes, but Tracey was a girl all her own, and needless to say, she took after her ‘uncle’ maybe a little _too_ much. ‘ _You’re not the boss of me_ ’ and ‘ _I can wear whatever I fucking want_ ’ and ‘ _it’s my fucking body_ ’ and ‘ _you’re not my dad, you fucking tyrant_ ’ was met with ‘ _you’re not going out looking like a whore_ ’ and ‘ _I won’t have my niece taken for a harlot_ ’ and ‘ _mind your mouth, missy_ ’ and ‘ _you better get your ass upstairs and change that shit, little girl, pronto_ ’.

Michael just let it happen. Hell, what was he supposed to do, throw himself in the middle like a madman? He’d rather do his own stunts, thank you.

“ _Daaad_!” Tracey said.

Michael sighed and absently replied, “Listen to your mother…” His eyes shot open in realization of what he’d said, but there was no chance to correct it. Trevor continued without pause.

“ _Argh_ , your father is NOT going to save you on this one, princess! You get up those stairs and change right now or I’ll take that goddamn horse and sell it to a GLUE FACTORY!”

Tracey stopped mid-dispute, her jaw dropped, her brows furrowed in anger. While she glared at her uncle, Jimmy came back outside with a half-eaten sandwich. Trevor snapped a finger in his direction.

“And _you_! You’re going with your _sister_!” he commanded.

“What? I can’t go anywhere, I got a raid in like ten minutes, bro,” Jim replied.

“DON’T CALL ME BRO AND DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT TWICE!”

“You are such a fucking DICTATOR!” Tracey yelled, but she marched off towards her room. Jim trotted after her like a meek puppy, confused albeit obedient.

Surprise was the last thing Michael expected to feel. Seeing his daughter out-matched in a screaming fit was quite the show. And seeing his son speechless was a bonus. He chuckled.

“And what are _you_ laughing at?” Trevor asked, turning on him.

“They’re kids, T,” he replied. “I mean, Jim ain’t exactly the most adventurous type. I can never get him to go anywhere. And Trace’s a young woman. You can’t really expect her not to rebel like that, I mean… she’s gonna’ change back into that other outfit after she leaves, you know that, right?”

“You know what, Mikey, I don’t give a flying _fuck_ what you think you know about parenting. You _suck_ at it. I cut that little girl’s apples for her when she was three years old, so _fuck you_.”

Michael laughed, unfazed by the insult. The memory of Trevor, knife in hand, red delicious apple in the other, slicing the fruit into thin strips for a toddler who flailed about the kitchen for him like a tap-dancing poltergeist, was all he could see. She couldn’t dance back then and she couldn’t dance now. But Trevor had praised her all the same.  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Michael said and stretched in his chair. “You know everything; I don’t, yada, yada…”

Trevor might have made an equally offensive response, but stayed quiet as Tracey returned in a red t-shirt and jean capris, her brother in tow. She hugged her uncle and kissed his cheek lightly. “Bye, Uncle Trevor,” she said.

Jim waved. “Bye, Uncle T.”

Both departed via the side driveway where Jim had parked his new car. The tires screeched as they drove away. The sun had already started to make its descent towards the west; it was maybe four in the afternoon. Trevor—to Michael’s undisclosed astonishment—said nothing and slinked back into the pool, so Michael lugged himself up from his chair and walked to the edge.

“You seriously going back in? The kids are gone, bro, we can just hang out. Have a beer. Order a pizza.”

At this suggestion, Trevor rolled his eyes.

“Well if you’re gonna’ continue to soak your ass in chlorine,” Michael said, “then I’m gonna’ need another drink.”

He turned for the house, but didn’t get far. With a sizable splash, his shoulder hit the surface of the water, arms flailing and legs kicking as he went under. He coughed and swore as he emerged, soaking and rubbing at his face. He opened his eyes to confront his former running buddy, intent to give the other man the worst chastising of his pitiable life, when Trevor swam through his legs like a dolphin, brushing against his crotch in the process. Michael had to clear his throat, momentarily flabbergasted, but as Trevor resurfaced he gained control of himself and glared. Trevor had a look of innocence on his face, blinking as if he’d had no idea what he’d done.

Michael’s lips cracked into a smile. “ _Ass_ ,” he said and splashed Trevor as hard as he could.

A playful battle ensued. At one point, Trevor seemed to be winning, but Michael dove for him, seized his waist, and drew the both of them under. Trevor was heavier than Michael remembered, but as they wrestled beneath the surface, he recalled the past and how young they had actually been their first time. Twenties; juveniles. Michael was now forty-five, soon to be forty-six, and Trevor was not far behind. Incredible, the way the years flew. It seemed eons ago, and Michael felt for the first time since living in los Santos a fear that his youth was entirely gone. And what had he done with it? Steal, rob, kill. Those were not acts to be proud of, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself they were. In fact, the only thing he had ever done right at that age—and now that he was older he could be sure of it—was being with Trevor. Was holding Trevor. Was, albeit on his terms, _loving_ Trevor—though that love had never truly been expressed, at least not in a way that was understood by anyone but himself.

He decided he wanted that again, if only for today.

Ever pliant, Trevor came easily into his arms, that resistance fading as soon as Michael gripped his waist and pulled him close. Their lips met and Michael could honestly feel the sensation Trevor had previously describe, that he was unbound and soaring, his body the craft and the water the heavens. Freeing.

Then, out of nowhere, they were both surfaced, dripping in the warm air, their arms entangled. Michael was still clothed but Trevor adroitly lifted the fabric of his soaked, black tank and whipped it aside, immediately securing their mouths once more. They kissed awhile, their enjoyment no doubt mutual; Michael could feel Trevor’s erection nudging him in the thigh. When their kisses turned to heavy petting, Michael couldn’t keep himself from forcibly trapping Trevor against the edge of the pool.

“… way too long,” he said between their parting lips. He dipped his head and latched his teeth onto the curve in Trevor’s neck, the action vampiric in the way his lips began to suck.

 Trevor hissed and made a grimace. “ _Ah_ … that was _your_ fault…”

A few beats and Michael released his hold, nibbling the reddened spot before blowing on it gently. He glanced down and saw the collage of erupted blood vessels create a delicate bruise against his friend’s weathered skin. In Trevor’s ear he whispered, “You’re right.”

Trevor looked at him, his brows creased.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Michael asked.

No response.  

“You know, I never knew what to think… of _us_. I still don’t.”

Trevor remained silent, shifting, but Michael kept him in place with a hand at either side of his hips.

“All I know is I wanna’ feel that way with you again,” Michael said.

He kissed Trevor once more, this time sparing no energy in the use of his lips and tongue, but all too quickly he was being pushed away. He fought the hands that pressed against his chest, not wanting to let go, but there was nothing he could do against the will of Trevor Philips. He was shoved backwards and fell under the water. When he surfaced he caught sight of Trevor sprinting towards the house.

“Trevor!” he said, sputtering and wiping the water from his face. “T, wait!”

He attempted to follow, but as soon as he stepped out of the pool he slipped and tumbled to the ground. Wincing, he hurried to his feet and raced after Trevor, yelling as he ran.

“T, I’m sorry! Come back! Just wait a goddamn second! _Trevor_!”

Flying through the dining room and into the foyer, Michael nearly slipped yet again on a pair of soaked bathing suit bottoms laying abandoned on the tiled floor. The two front doors were thrown open, and through them Michael could see a naked Trevor dashing for the red Bodhi parked sloppily behind his own black Tailgater. He moved faster, hoping he could stop his friend, but his hopes were dashed as Trevor jumped behind the wheel, pulled a turn in reverse, then sped past the automatic gates, clipping the frame in the process.

“TREVOR!” Michael yelled, but the other man was gone.

“ _Shit_ ,” Michael muttered under his breath. After a minute he decided to retreat back into his house. Trevor’s clothing remained folded on the decorative couch near the door. Michael could remember putting them there, but recalled seeing no cell phone. He took Trevor’s pants and felt the pockets, found there was none. Could Trevor have left it in his car? Michael didn’t care for speculation. He retraced his steps back to the pool and snatched his smartphone from off the accent table. Dialing, he tapped his damp shoe.

Dial tone, once, twice—cancelled to voice mail. The same, idiotic message about Trevor’s business began to play and Michael cursed. He hung up and tried again. Dial tone, once—cancelled.

“ _Damnit_ , Trevor, answer your goddamn, fucking _phone_ ,” Michael said aloud.

He tried once more. Dial tone, once, twice—a click. Michael blinked, heard the air whirring in the phone, and recognized the heavy breathing through the receiver.

“WHAT?”

Trevor’s voice boomed into Michael’s ear, making him cringe, but he wasn’t about to let an aggressive front throw him off his game. He replied calmly.

“You ran out. I must’ve done somethin’.”

“Argh, _yeah_ , maybe you _did_.”

“So you gonna’ just run the fuck off and not talk to me about it? Leave me to wonder what the hell went wrong?”

“ _You’ve_ never seemed to have a problem with _running off_ and not ‘talking about it’, have you, _Mikey_?”

And there it was. He was not truly forgiven. Not yet, at least.

“Trevor. You said we were square.”

“How _fucking_ dare you. If you can’t see, after a fucking _decade’s_ worth of lies, why I’m still a tad bit _raw_ about our friendship, then you’re an even bigger _chump_ than I ever took you for, Townley.”

Michael sighed, exasperated. “The fuck do you _want_ from me, Trevor? Huh? What is it? What the _fuck_ can I do that’ll make you shut the _fuck up_ about the past for one _goddamn_ day? _Huh_?”

As soon as this came out of his mouth, Michael expected Trevor to hang up. In fact, he almost expected Trevor not to contact him ever again, but maybe that was the fear inside him, an element he wasn’t exactly thrilled to acknowledge.

Trevor’s harsh breath could be heard in ragged pants. He let out a frustrated scream away from the phone and swore, then spat out, “FUCKIN’ SERENADE ME, MOTHERFUCKER!”

The line went dead. Michael let his phone drift from his ear, staring at the touch screen while contemplating Trevor’s parting words. It sounded like a joke, like an everyday expression that really just meant ‘fuck you’. Yet, despite his penchant for mayhem, Trevor was often more consistent in his ways than Michael or even Franklin. And he was very literal.

So, when the order ‘serenade me’ was spoken, well… Michael had no other thought than to take it seriously.

 _Alright_ , he affirmed to himself. _Alright_.

He darted through the mansion, turning right up the stairwell for the master bedroom.

A fresh suit later, he flitted about the room, packing an additional two outfits, his toothbrush, deodorant, and a clean pair of briefs in a navy blue backpack his son had badgered him into buying so he’d appear younger. _Fat chance of that_. He snorted to himself, striding into the bedroom’s closet once more for his nice shoes, when the sight of something made him stop in his tracks.

It was still there. The fabric. The slitted straps. Black draped elegantly.

He turned. Stopped. Turned again.

It lay there innocently enough—as a pretty little dress should—however, Michael couldn’t keep from feeling it disingenuous. He turned as if to leave, but at the last moment he whirled around and snatched it off the couch, stuffing its satin length into his bag. A quick zip and the garment was forgotten.

Another minute and he was locking the front door, jogging to his car.

 

* * *

 

On the road from Del Perro Freeway onto Interstate 1, Route 13 into Blaine County, Michael had time to consider three decade’s worth of mistakes. Truly he was finished pondering the ‘what ifs’ of his past, yet seeing Trevor so shaken made the complacency he’d swathed himself in fragment, like a caterpillar ripped from its cocoon three quarters of the way through its transformation.

But he couldn’t blame Trevor. Not anymore.

The last few years proved it hadn’t been _Trevor’s_ doing that threatened his life—it had been _his own_.

Chasing down an arrogant tennis coach, destroying the house of a Mexican mob boss, holding up a jewelry store, getting back in the game… that was all his doing. And there was also his personal life; cheating on Amanda, ignoring his children, fighting with his family, growing more unhappy and depressed by the day whilst lounging among imported palm trees with a glass of whiskey—always a glass of whiskey—gripped tightly in his hand… that was his doing, too. He hadn’t even known Trevor was still alive then.

Now he could see the sky for what it was, clear if he chose it to be, cloudy if he decided against it, but he wasn’t so sure he could ask that of himself any longer.

He had to make things right.

Passing the penitentiary on his left, he signaled to switch lanes, taking a right off the exit ramp onto Route 68. He eventually veered onto Panorama Drive and took a right at East Joshua, the all too familiar sight of the ‘picturesque’ Sandy Shores both exhilarating and frightening. Seconds and he was at the end of Zancudo Avenue, parked in front of the trailer that was Trevor’s most reliable residence. The Bodhi sat just outside the rundown garage. It was slanted in its space. Michael peered from the safety of his car, unsure, then switched the ignition off and pocketed the keys, making his way towards the prefabricated patio.

“ _Psst_ ,” a weak voice said, attempting to catch his attention. “ _Psst_ , _hey_. _Hey_ , _Michael.”_

Michael swiveled to see Ron behind the nearby fence. Wade appeared after another moment, less shifty than Ron, but just as careful not to make a sound. Ron’s tan bucket hat bobbed as he motioned energetically for Michael to come closer. Wade caught on and started to do the same, so Michael sighed and walked to where the two stood with hands outstretched in question.

“The hell you two whisperin’ for?” he asked. “An’ where’s Trevor?”

“ _Shhh_!” Ron said. He cowered while speaking, a habit grown undoubtedly second nature. His hands moved in exaggeration as he expounded. “ _Trevor isn’t seeing anyone right now_. _He doesn’t want to be disturbed and he doesn’t want any noise_.”

“Yeah,” Wade added. “He don’t wanna’ talk to no one right now.” He didn’t seem to notice the contradicting volume of his voice. Ron shushed him, but it didn’t take. “I think he’s—I think maybe he’s _sick_ or somthin’, cause he came home like, without no clothes on. I didn’t see him sneeze or nothin’, but havin’ no clothes can make you sick, so it’s pretty obvious. Said he wanted ‘peace and quiet’, soes we got to make sure we don’t be too loud to let ‘em sleep.”

“ _Shhh_!”

“The fuck does that all mean?” Michael asked.

“ _Shhh_! _He’ll be_ mad _if you wake him_.”

Michael fought the urge to roll his eyes. He wanted to tell the ignorant pair to fuck off, but thought better of it, instead saying, “Yeah, well, get ready, ‘cause he’s about to get real _mad_.”

Before either Ron or Wade could object, Michael turned back and was marching for the trailer. He banged twice on the side where Trevor’s bedroom was, pounding the metal panel hard with the meat of his balled up fist.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” he said loudly.

He then strode over the remains of the trailer’s front fence for his car and opened the passenger door, placing the key in the ignition to turn the stereo on. He switched songs and waited, but Trevor never showed.

“Come on, T,” he called again.

Grabbing three stones by his feet, he whipped them at the side of the trailer, expecting to throw all three, but the front door flew open with a violent crash before he could let the remainder fly.

Trevor roared.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID I…”

He lost his voice completely. Michael relished it. Trevor was rarely shocked or rendered speechless, but that deer-in-the-headlights look was so incredibly enchanting over his usual scowl that Michael almost missed his queue.

He stepped forward below the patio and looked up, unable to keep his eyes from stealing a glance at Trevor’s nakedness. “You ain’t packin’ much heat are you, friend?” He grinned at his own innuendo.

Trevor looked down at himself, then at Michael’s smirking face. A tidal wave, his mouth was let loose.

“YOU KNOW GODDAMN WELL WHAT KIND OF HEAT I’M PACKING, TOWNELY.”

Michael’s cheeks drained. He could hear rustling near the other fence and glanced away to see Ron looking about, his eyes darting at anything other than Trevor, then suddenly at Trevor, then back again to anything other than Trevor. Wade simply stared as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“That ain’t nuthin’ top secret,” he said. “I’ve seen Trevor’s ding-dong plenty of times.”

Trevor ignored the comment. “And just what the _fuck_ are you doing here, Michael?” he asked.

“It’s very _adequate_ ,” Ron added carefully, “Not too big, yet not too small.”

“Shut. Up. _Ron_.”

While this verbal back and forth was going on, Michael had regained himself and pressed the button to his car’s stereo, liberating the pending song he’d chosen. It began to play, the melodic piano familiar. Everyone ceased to speak.

“The _fuck_ are you doing?” Trevor said. His face screwed up in uncertainty.

“I’m serenading you.” Michael paused. “ _Motherfucker_.”

Trevor became quiet as the words to the well-known ballad reverberated from the car. Michael had no idea where the courage to start humming along came from, but a minute in and he was singing the lyrics as best he could, his attention fixed on Trevor—for emotional sake possibly, more so to avoid eyes with Ron and Wade. He could see Trevor’s facial expression shift and transform, going soft, his perpetual frown lightening into a small, sentimental smile (though as Michael started to sing he laughed loudly.) Their secluded bubble seemed impenetrable, but Wade accidently bumped against the fence and suddenly Trevor was yelling.

“Well, get a _fucking_ lighter and wave that _shit around_ FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

As Ron and Wade both fumbled to do as their CEO demanded, Michael continued the song without missing a beat, eventually coming to stand beneath the patio as he’d done before, looking up as Trevor gazed down, his cheek resting against his propped up hand. All Michael could see was brown eyes and a happy smile.

He gestured as he sung. “ _After all that we’ve been through, I will make it up to you… I promise to_.”

The song finished, tapering off at the end, and before Michael knew it he was sighing, relaxed. But Trevor leaned back and swaggered into his house without a word, and Michael couldn’t help but second guess his attempted apology. Did it fail? Was he now hated more?

He mumbled a ‘ _shit_ ’ under his breath, but Trevor came back, making him glance up with a hopeful expression.

“Oh, sweet, stupid Michael,” Trevor started, “You’re a dandy after my own heart. You’ve won my favor, fair prince.”

He tossed a pair of shit-stained underwear at Michael as if they were a silken handkerchief. They landed square on Michael’s face and he flung them off disgustedly.

“Gah, _fuck_! The fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

A hearty laugh followed. Trevor then turned his attentions to Ron and Wade who watched the scene in puzzlement.

“WADE! Quit staring at my _dick_ and go get me some fuckin’ grenades! I got an appointment tomorrow regarding Trevor Philips Enterprises,” he said.

Wade scurried like a cockroach under a light.

“RON! Scrounge together some _courage_ and go meet my five o’clock at the Yellow Jack Inn. Tell them all about our little operation and let them know the fine print is _non-negotiable_. And fur’ God’s sake take a fucking _bath_ before you go.”

Although Ron nodded he kicked at the ground, seemingly upset by the errand. Trevor then turned his sights to Michael.

“And _you_ …” he hissed. “Get. Inside. _Now_.”

Michael blinked. He gave the same impartial look he always gave when being commanded to do something he felt infringed on his independence, but cracked his neck and swaggered slowly toward the trailer. Trevor scrutinized his every move. Once they were both inside, Trevor calmly shut the door.

Then he pounced.

Michael was shoved against the dirty refrigerator, his lips crushed in a burning kiss. Trevor was rapacious. His fingers were like claws as he tore at Michael’s clothes, insistent to remove them, yet Michael—now recovered from his initial daze—was just getting started. What was merely the onset of desire became a frenzy as both groped at one another’s arms, hair, face, chest, and hips. Trevor’s breath was ragged and uneven, but when Michael bit at the tender spot along his neck he yelped. Michael tensed and drew back, realizing his mistake. Trevor surprised him.

“Your hands, Mikey,” he said breathlessly. “Put them on me.”

Michael didn’t object.

Their fumbling continued as the radio in the trailer played random songs, a collage of melodious notes and voices.

Michael felt like he was on cloud nine and said through his teeth, “Fuck, T, I can’t wait to be inside you…”

That was when Trevor pulled back. He panted, his cheeks red and his hair tousled to the extreme, but the look in his eyes portrayed rage.

“You listen to me, Townley, and you listen _good_ ,” he said, his voice a vicious growl. “ _I’m_ the one who does the fucking here, not _you_. You got that, _sugar-tits_?”

“Cut it out.”

“NO! No, that shit is LONG past us, Michael, LONG past us. Yeah, maybe—maybe _once_ , when I-I wasn’t so jaded—maybe I would’ve _bottomed_ for you, but that ship has _sailed_ , sweetheart, _ooh_ that ship has sailed.”

There was a pause, and Michael saw the crazed gleam in his old running buddy’s eye. He’d never been afraid of Trevor—cautious, yes. Anxious, sure. But never afraid. That had changed. The way Trevor eyed him… he felt like a piece of meat left out for a starved tiger.

“Oh, that ship is gone, sugar…” Trevor said, licking his lips. “Now… oh, God, _now_ all I want is to be balls deep in your _fat_ fuckin’ _ass_.” He closed the space between them, pressing Michael into the fridge while gripping at his wrists. “I wanna’ feel that tight hole squeeze around my boy like a fuckin’ _clamp_.”

“Easy, T,” Michael said. “We ain’t there just yet.”

Trevor snarled in response. “ _Rrrr_ , Mikey, I’m gonna’ _bounce_ that bubble butt o’ yours on my lap ‘til I fuckin’ _explode_ …”

Michael felt the sudden weight of his friend holding him down, the sensation of Trevor’s head cradled in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He heard a deep inhalation and felt Trevor’s hard-on nudge into his thigh, prompting his heart to thud in his ears, and he strained.

“Stop wiggling,” Trevor said. “Don’t.”

Considerably calm despite the circumstance, Michael spoke in a firm, even tone. “Steady now, T… it’s time to let me go. Let’s be levelheaded, huh? How ‘bout we just—”

What happened next Michael would’ve never expected.

His vision blurred as the back of his head was smashed against the hard exterior of the fridge, the impact making him slump; it was unbelievable that he didn’t pass out. His belt was undone and his pants were unzipped, but it wasn’t until Trevor grunted in his ear that he recovered his senses.

“I’m gonna’ have you, Mikey,” Trevor said. “God, I’m gonna’ have you _right_ —”

No contemplation was involved for Michael to do what needed to be done. Only instinct.

His knee snapped up, connecting with Trevor’s exposed testicles, and all that came to mind was the memory of Trevor doing the same to him so many years ago among a snowy field up north. Still, knowing how badly it hurt didn’t give him any sympathy. Trevor flew backwards and clutched at himself, groaning in agony between dry heaves as he sunk to the floor.

“ _Ahh_ , _fuck_!” he said and squirmed. “Fuck, M—you nailed me right in the fuckin’ _balls_!”

Michael flared.

“YOU EVER PULL SOMETHING LIKE THAT AGAIN AND I’ll PUT YOUR ASS IN THE GROUND—YOU HEAR ME, YOU FUCKIN’ LUNATIC?!”

A grin cracked Trevor’s lips and he chuckled between breaths. “Well, _that_ ain’t somethin’ new.”

The kick delivered made Trevor cry out again, but caused Michael to lose his footing. He stumbled back into the pile of boxes rested in the corner opposite the bathroom. Both men stayed where they had fallen, Trevor doubled over and rubbing both areas of impact, Michael attempting to regain his faculties. It seemed hours before Michael could rise to his feet without feeling dizzy, yet in truth it probably wasn’t more than a few minutes, though Trevor was already ahead of him. Fear came back but there was no reason for it; Trevor was sitting on his kitchen table, gulping at a forty bottle of beer while staring blankly at the broken statue of Impotent Rage and rubbing at his undoubtedly sore crotch. Michael wiped his mouth and straightened his shirt.

“You are one _lucky_ motherfucker, you know that? If I didn’t _owe_ you, man, I would’ve—”

“’m sorry, Michael,” Trevor said. His eyes were hidden by his downcast head, but the sorrow in his voice was apparent. It tugged at the hidden cords of Michael’s heart. “It’s the meth, brother,” Trevor went on. “You know, it—it makes you wanna’ fuck like crazy. I… I ain’t felt the rush of wanting someone… been so fuckin’ long since… feelings… all this hurt… inside…”

Michael paused, looking down at his now sullen friend. There was no doubt in his mind he was to blame for some of this aforementioned ‘hurt’. Hell, he was probably the cause of most of it, but he didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all, not until the sight of Trevor’s stifled emotions prompted him to react. He tried to place a hand on his friend’s shuddering shoulder, but Trevor leapt forward off the table with renewed vigor.

“Fuck it!” he said. His tears hadn’t yet begun to clear, but he wiped them away quickly. “You know what, Mikey? _Fuck_ it, boy, let’s just—let’s just have some fucking _fun_ for once!”

Michael was thrown off guard, and yet this was nothing new to him, so he let his hand fall by his side and nodded.

“We don’t need this fucking drama, man!” Trevor continued. “We don’t _need_ this, this deso _lation_ , this—this _melancholy_! What we need is to get our asses out there—” He pointed beyond the walls of his trailer, “—and have the best Goddamn time of our _lives_!  Huh?!  Come on, buddy, you and me, like the good old days, before all this shit!”

Regardless of his apprehension towards this sudden spark, Michael was loath to admit Trevor’s enthusiasm wasn’t contagious. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright,” he said. “What did—”

“You let me worry about that, Mikey my boy, huh?” Trevor replied. “Come on.  I can’t slow down, so you better speed up.” He turned for the door, snatching the Piswasser trucker hat from off the counter and fitting it on his balding head. He flung open the door, but Michael hurriedly step out and took his hand.

“How ‘bout we compromise?” Michael said. “I speed it up some; you try and slow it down some.”

Trevor stared, his tongue darting out as it did to lick his ever twitching lips. He appeared to be caught between self-doubt and certainty. Finally, he conceded.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Townley.”

“Great.” Michael leaned in, squeezing Trevor’s calloused fingers. “Now let’s start with me headin’ to the car and _you_ puttin’ on some clothes.”

Trevor glanced down without moving his head and smirked. “Why didn’t you tell me I was _au naturel_ , Michael? Like what’cha see, huh?”

Michael took a single step back. He eyed his rebellious friend from head to toe and gave his most sensuous smile.

“Yeah,” he replied, realizing he wasn’t lying. “Yeah, I do.”

As he strolled out the opened door, he swore he could see a red painting Trevor’s cheeks, though maybe that was his pride talking.

 

* * *

             

Paleto Bay was a ballsy place to visit for an evening out considering the ridiculous heist they’d pulled off not too long ago, but who else other than Trevor was capable of such dauntlessness? Michael was stumped when they parked outside ‘The Hen House’ off of Paleto Boulevard.

“I almost killed a Mexican guy over there,” Trevor said casually, pointing across the street.

“ _Almost_?” Michael replied. “Well, you must’ve been havin’ an off day then, not to do something you do all the time without a shred of remorse.”

“No, no, no, it wasn’t like that. Guy was… well, I owed him. Like to think I made up for it.” He paused. “And who the fuck says I don’t have _remorse_?”

Michael rolled his eyes while his friend exited the truck. The sky had gone dusk and the first of the stars were twinkling. When they approached the front doors, Trevor jerked his chin at the bouncer, receiving a nod and a ‘Hey, Boss,’ in return.

“You own this place?” Michael asked.

Trevor held open the door and gestured for Michael to enter. “Yep-a-roo, sugar-tits.”

“God, you’re relentless with the nicknames, aren’t you?”

“Sure am.”

Inside the club was a shit looking bar, an ATM tucked in a corner, and a dozen frayed seats scattered around a strip pole mounted on a small center stage. The bar had an endless assortment of booze and a limited amount of tits, but it wasn’t too bad. Michael ordered a glass of whiskey while Trevor signaled for a bottle of Benedict, free of charge of course, and the two each took one of the unoccupied chairs to watch the next stripper dance.

But she never showed.

Soon it was apparent the girl wasn’t coming, and the few patrons in the bar began to complain. One man with the typical hillbilly overalls and an eagle on his shirt slammed down his glass of beer and demanded a show.            Michael snorted. “Well, Mr. Philips, what’re you going to do about this little predicament threatenin’ your business?” He took a gulp of his whiskey, in no way trying to hide the humor on his face.

Michael snorted. “Well, Mr. Philips, what’re you going to do about this little predicament threatenin’ your business?” He took a gulp of his whiskey, in no way trying to hide the humor on his face.

Trevor didn’t move. After a few beats, he sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. He went towards the stage and stepped on the platform. Taking the metal pole in his grip, he seemingly tested its strength before removing his boots and socks. Next was his shirt.

As he unzipped his pants, revealing not a pair of shit-stained briefs, but silky black boy-shorts, Michael slouched lower in his chair and put a hand to his face, mortified. Good God, what the hell was that man _thinking_? Music began to play, a rhythmic guitar, and Trevor began to dance.

The proceeding minute made Michael’s mouth drop. A few patrons within the club decided to leave, slinking out the door, while the few others opted to sit at the bar, their eyes glued to the liquor decorating the wall. An older gent with a full, graying beard lit a cigarette and licked his lips as he watched. The hillbilly in the overalls sat dumbstruck. Everyone was silent.

And yet, despite his audience, there was no denying Trevor moved as fluidly as water, his characteristic lumbering made somehow graceful and sinuous, as if the stage gave new understanding to the particular brand of elegance he possessed. No, he wasn’t perfect. God knew. His feet flexed too much, detracting from that pointed, ballerina-esq appeal, and he tripped a few times, regaining himself before taking a nose dive to the floor.

This delicateness didn’t suit him. Michael could see that. But the rugged way in which he _failed_ at being dainty was beyond endearing. _That_ suited him. And when it came to his first trick? Christ, he was about as unabashed by the action as a nymphomaniac was by sex.

It was systematic: grip pole, swing legs, shock everyone in the joint.  

Meanwhile, Michael was sweating. Nothing in the English language could explain the sensations churning in his gut. ‘Wolfish’ came to mind. He signaled for another whiskey. The server delivered, bending to hand him his drink. He thanked her without looking away, for at that exact moment Trevor was perfecting a lovely body ripple the likes of which he’d never seen. Those muscular arms, though undeniably masculine, appeared shapely under the lights of the bar, and the shadows that sloped across his stomach gave definition to his waist.

He looked like a mermaid—merman?—speared on the long, silver shaft of a well-aimed harpoon. Michael leaned back into his chair, enchanted.

Pity it couldn’t have lasted a little longer.

As a mermaid was soaked when hoisted out of the sea, so became Trevor. The glass almost hit his head, but he shifted at the last minute, causing it to thud against his shoulder. A look of surprise flashed across his face and he lost his footing, slipping on the excess beer coating the stage top. He fell. No one breathed.

However, being Trevor, it didn’t take long for him to leap up, his hip obviously sore—age was a bitch—but the fire as fierce in his eyes as ever. He was a lion angered and in pain, a man insulted, a creature enraged, raring for the kill.

But it was Michael who shot out of his chair.

It was Michael who stomped in the direction of the overall wearing hillbilly. It was Michael who seized the guy’s shirt, and it was Michael who pummeled him into oblivion. People yelled, but no one interfered or moved to leave. The unfortunate man slumped to the floor, unconscious, but Michael didn’t care. He whirled around to meet Trevor’s gaze. Trevor wasn’t embarrassed—was he ever?—but he moved as if to leave the stage. Michael stopped him.

“No, wait,” he said softly. He nudged Trevor’s arm, then, without taking his eyes away, slipped a bill—he didn’t know how much—beneath the elastic band of those tight short and slowly backpedaled to sit in the foremost seat before the stage, front and center. “Go on.”

Trevor beamed.

After a time it seemed there was no one but the two of them. Trevor did his thing on the pole, grinding it, pumping it, whatever came to him on the spot, while Michael watched with the concentration of someone obsessed. The gent with the gray beard from before came and sat closer, offering Michael a cigarette, to which he didn’t refuse. Whiskey had made him calm and the nicotine helped.

Too soon, though, Trevor was stepping off the stage, allowing for the girl scheduled next to take his place. He put on his pants and slipped into his boots, shaking his head at the older gent waving a fifty his way.

“Don’t need your money, gramps,” he said and sat down. He looked to Michael and cringed. “ _Yeesh_ , guy gives me the _creeps_.”

 “Well, it’s not like you’re a _horrible_ dancer—just so-so. Guess you don’t give private dances, huh?” Michael laughed.

Trevor crooked an eyebrow. “I’d give you a private dance anytime, Mikey.”

Michael’s expression darkened. “Anytime?”

“ _Anytime_.”

That was it. Michael got to his feet, gesturing for Trevor to hurry. They walked to the concealed booths at the other end of the club and Michael ducked beneath the curtain draping its entrance. Expecting Trevor to follow, Michael sat and waited, pleasantly surprised when not only Trevor came in, but two scantily clad strippers as well.

Goddamnit, him and his damn _weaknesses_.

The four laughed and drank and danced. By the time Michael was on his sixth or seventh—maybe it was more—glass of whiskey, Trevor was straddling his lap and swaying to the heavy beat resonating throughout the bar. Michael couldn’t control his hands.

“Naughty, Mikey,” Trevor said. “You can look, but you ain’t supposed to touch, you know…”

“I’ll touch you whenever I want,” Michael replied, slurring. “I’ll touch you _however_ I want.”

Off to the side, the two strippers had begun kissing and groping. The bouncer had been told to turn the other way. Trevor’s bare chest felt hot on the tips of his fingers.

“I’ll touch you everywhere…” Michael trailed drunkenly. “I’ll touch you for hours an’ hours an’ hours…”

He grasped at Trevor’s jaw, attempting to guide him into an awaiting kiss, but Trevor quickly rose from Michael’s lap and laughed.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mikey-boy!” he said, swaying. He pushed the curtain covering their little alcove aside and looked over his shoulder. “You, Mr. De _Santa_ , need a beer. Gotta’ sober you up some. Don’t want ‘chu gettin’ whiskey dick before the nights out.”

Michael grinned. “I’m _immune_ to whiskey dick.”

“Well, _I_ need to take a leak,” Trevor replied. He acted coy. “Don’t go nowhere now. I’ll be riiight baaaack.”

With that said, Trevor slipped from the room effortlessly, leaving Michael and the two strippers alone. Michael watched them for a while, and when they offered to treat him with a double danced he kindly welcomed the suggestion, but after twenty minutes he was getting tired of waiting for Trevor.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, pushing one aside gently. “Seems I’ll have to get my _own_ drink.”

As he ducked beneath the cover of the curtain, the distinct sounds of sexy giggling could be heard, and Michael fought the urge to go retrace his steps and let them service him one more time. However, the moment passed and he was out among the main room looking for Trevor with growing concern.

Trevor wasn’t anywhere.

Michael scanned along the barstools, checked the bathrooms, and asked the servers, but the man could not be found, so he had to look elsewhere. He wandered outside and glanced at the parking spots along the street, expecting to see Trevor’s red Bodhi, but it was gone. Then his phone rang. He saw the name and sighed.

“Hey, dickhead,” he said, “what’s with leaving me stranded at the bar?”

Wind could be heard amid the background as Trevor replied. “Well, _sugar-plum_ , I decided the atmosphere wasn’t right. Not where I wanna’ end up being intimate.”

Michael snorted. “Oh, not the place, huh? The ambiance just not setting the right kind of mood, is that it? And who exactly says you and I are gonna’ be _intimate_ tonight? ”

“Your _cock_.”

Michael paused, opting to lose out on the last word rather than be wrong.

“Besides,” Trevor continued. “I… kinda’ wanted to see if maybe you woulda’… ya know, come lookin’ for me.”

“You left me hangin’.”

“Not _exactly_. A taxi is on its way now.” Trevor made a tsk-tsk. “And you thought I’d leave you behind. I’m not _you_ , Michael.”

“Hey. _Watch it_.”

“I’ll be waiting, lover boy,” Trevor resumed. He purred into the phone and Michael felt his spine twitch in both annoyance and excitement. “Don’t be too long now, ya hear?”

“I’ll be however long I have to be, you prick,” Michael replied, his annoyance spiking. “You put me in this position, so deal with the delay. In fact, why would I come back at all? I can take the cab home and tow the car, see your sick ass another day.”

“If you did you wouldn’t get to see what I have for you,” Trevor said. The wind had ceased and his voice was lower. “Trust me, Mikey, you’ll want to ad _dress_ this, I’m sure.”

“What are you, a fuckin’ riddle bo—”

The line was dead.

“Dick,” said Michael under his breath.

He sat on the curb in front of The Hen House until the taxi came along, all the while wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

The ride back to Sandy Shores wasn’t necessarily a long one, but it sure as hell didn’t make him amused. Forty minutes later and he was finally stepping onto Trevor’s front porch, neither happy nor interested in seeing this supposed surprise. He pushed through the trailer door, debating on whether or not to crack open a beer, but decided to go to the freezer and pour himself an icy shot of vodka instead. He downed the shot, shaking his head at the taste, and poured another. After that he gave the tiny residence a quick once over to see where Trevor was. The bathroom door was closed. He yawned.

Two more shots and he was feeling the buzz again, humming along to the radio on the window sill.

“Teeeeeeee,” he called, swaying. “T, T, Teeeeee… Tee, Tee… Tee-tees. Titties. _Trevor_!”

There was no answer.

“Trevor!” Michael called again, banging on the bathroom door. “What’re ya’ doin’ in there?”

“Whadaya’ think?” Trevor called back.

Sighing exasperatedly, Michael went back to the vodka placed on the counter. He leaned and poured himself another shot when all of a sudden the door to the bathroom unlocked. Trevor walked out. Michael froze mid-way into bringing the shot glass to his lips.

Jesus, it fit perfectly. Just as he’d thought it would.

He gulped the shot without looking away. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to shit,” Trevor replied. “How else do you think I could wiggle into a lil’ number like this?”

Disregarding his friend’s vulgarity, Michael closed the gap between them and brought a hand up to touch the dress, feeling the satin fabric as he let his palm trail from Trevor’s chest to the curve of his hip.

“You look… ridiculous.”

“Hey, fuck _you_ ,” Trevor replied. “This is your _dream_ right here, sugar—I’m not blind. That’s why you _brought_ it.”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t know why I brought it.”

Trevor pursed his painted lips. He put his hands on his hips, his red finger nails contrasting the black satin nicely, and strutted around Michael like a predator circling its prey, his outrageous red, platform pumps clacking hard on the vinyl flooring.

“I should thank Mandy,” he said. “She knows what works with my thick calves.”

Michael wanted to say not to bring up his wife, but his eyes were dragged southward at the mentioning of calves. A bulge below Trevor’s stomach threw him off momentarily, in which case he grabbed the bottle of vodka to ease the shock. Wiping his mouth, he smiled and chuckled.

“I like thick calves.”

Taking a beer from the refrigerator, Michael opened it, giving it to his friend. The music from the radio changed from upbeat to slow. Michael swallowed more vodka and chuckled.

“You wanna’ dance?” he asked.        

Trevor’s demeanor went from brutish to modest. “What?”

“Come ‘ere.”

Hesitation on Trevor’s part kept them separated, but Michael captured his waist and brought them together. They began to sway. Eric Clapton projected from the radio… _feel wonderful, because I see the love light in your eyes, and the wonder…_

“You smell nice,” Michael said absently. He then realized the magnitude of this statement. “Wow, did you actually take a fuckin’ shower? I’m shocked…”

Trevor’s response was husky. “Don’t get too excited, Mikey. I scrubbed in all the right places—nothin’ more.”

Michael smirked, stepping back from their dancing to take another swill of vodka. “I don’t believe it.”

“The _fuck_ is there not to believe? I’m fuckin’ _human_ , ya’ know. I bathe too.” Trevor paused. “Just not _often_.”

Michael chuckled. “Exactly. Very peculiar behavior. And that pole dancin’ from before… where’d you learn how to do that?”

It was Trevor’s turn to chuckle. “I own the fuckin’ Hen House and the Vanilla Unicorn. Strippers make good teachers if you’re willin’ to learn.”

He demonstrated this newly taught skill by stepping back and administering a sloppy handstand, making the dress shift to reveal stockings attached to garters. Michael witnessed this unintentional slip and was spellbound; he dropped the bottle of vodka and seized Trevor’s upside-down midsection, securing his hold.

The result was a strange position, a vertical sixty-nine of sorts, but with Michael’s sole interest entirely invested on the unbalanced man enwrapped by his forearms. Pulling the bottom hem of the dress south, he uncovered a pair of lacey thong underwear that stood between his mouth and his goal, so he yanked them aside to gain access and went with the flow of the alcohol. Trevor’s arms nearly gave out.  

After a brief time they went from being vertical to horizontal. Michael swept the contents of the round table onto the already messy floor and hoisted Trevor onto its surface. As he clawed at the straps of the dress and underwear, pulling them down, Trevor let out an exaggerated gasp, but it nonetheless drove Michael on, even if he didn’t want it to. At that point he was well aware who, exactly, was in control. It wasn’t him.

“Mikey,” Trevor breathed, his cheeks tinted red. He looked bizarrely delicate—not like the Trevor the rest of the world knew. It threw Michael off, yet he didn’t fight the hand that took the back of his neck to guide him into a rough kiss, lulling him and leaving lipstick smeared along his mouth.

A few minutes—which felt a lot longer to Michael—and Trevor was growling. “Fuck me already, Mikey.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Now, a healthy dose of chivalrous pride would never allow Michael to finish before his partner—lord knows Amanda had trained him to be gentlemanly in that regard—but Goddamn if he couldn’t help how good Trevor felt clenched around his shaft. It was probably the tightest thing he’d penetrated in over ten years. They were united maybe a fucking minute and Michael reached his end with a strangled cry. At this, Trevor screamed.

“YOU FUCK, YOU FUCK!”

“Gimme’ a moment, T,” Michael replied between breaths. “I ain’t… done yet. I swear.”

“If you don’t get _fucking_ hard again and _fuck me proper_ I’m gonna’ fuck _you_ instead, YOU HEAR ME, TUBBY?!”

There was no doubt in Michael’s mind the threat was real, so rather than have his ass pounded—an arrangement he couldn’t be more opposed to—he gripped himself furiously and thought of the hottest moments in his life, but the act was futile. He simply needed more time.

Meanwhile, Trevor’s rage grew.

“ _Rrrr_ , you’re not getting _hard_ ,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Just _hold on_ a Goddamn second,” Michael replied. “I ain’t there yet!”

“I’ve held on for nine _fucking_ years, Michael, and I will not wait ANOTHER MOMENT LONGER!”

In his heart of hearts, Michael knew Trevor would never hurt him, but when his former running buddy rose from the table he panicked. He jumped in front of Trevor and bent forward until his mouth was filled, an act he wasn’t entirely sure he was prepared for. This seemed to defuse the situation, as Trevor was instantly pacified, sighing as if an enormous pain had been alleviated. Michael kept at it, the flavor of his friend a distant memory, yet oh-so nostalgic, and soon he felt the tip of Trevor’s cock begin to prod the back of his throat in earnest. He hummed at the sensation, enjoying the familiar calm, but Trevor suddenly moved away. Michael looked up with questioning eyes.

“You don’t have to take the whole thing, sugar…”

Michael’s only response was to continue. Before long Trevor was panting and pulling at Michael’s hair, their movements strained, heightened, until finally release came in the form of warm spurts down the back of Michael’s throat. A mixture of excess saliva and cum trickled down the corner of his mouth as he gagged, but in the end he forced a swallow despite the stomach-churning sensation it gave him.

It was the right move.

Trevor yanked him up onto his feet and lapped at the side of his mouth, kissing him urgently.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he said between their parting lips.

“What is?” Michael replied.

“The way I taste on your tongue.”

A shiver ran along Michael’s spine at the needful edge in Trevor’s reply and he was happy to realize he was finally hard again. Of course, Trevor might’ve been happier at the fact, but at that point they were both so frantic it wasn’t quite fair to say who wanted what more. Only one thing could be said for certain and that was how badly Michael craved the delicious harmony they possessed when in the throes of fucking. An animal lurked beneath the skin of sophistication he wore, but unlike the beast that surfaced in Amanda’s presence, this one was entirely Trevor’s.

A rush came upon him and he pinned Trevor against the table, kissing him with such force their teeth grazed.

“Fuck, baby,” He said. “You want this dick, huh? You want this dick?”

“Don’t chu’ _fucking_ ask me that,” Trevor replied. “You _know_ I want it.”

“Where do ya’ want it?”

“In. My. _Fucking_. ASS.”

Michael spat into his palm. The following moments were a contradictory haze of cloudy and clear, as if half his senses were dulled and the others enhanced. Trevor held onto the rim of the table, his knuckles straining to keep him in place as his body shook and his head bobbed with the push of Michael’s hips. He came unexpectedly, shouting his orgasm like a prophet shouted the will of God unto their followers. Each nuance of sound was incredibly pleasant, but Michael found the way his eyes crossed in that final, defining moment to be the most satisfying; that’s when he, too, reached his peak.

They stayed unmoving in the minutes thereafter, Michael sweating, breathing, his eyes shut and his manhood going limp, while Trevor, his legs dangling off the table, hummed contently to himself.

The bliss had to end, so with a slight hiss Michael pulled himself free from the other man and turned to find a paper towel. He cleaned himself in the bathroom, tossing the towel in the trash as he walked out, expecting to see Trevor approach him, maybe with outstretched arms to embrace him, or with that age-old, listless expression while leaning in for a kiss—the man was, beneath that rotten exterior, a cuddler at heart—but none of the sort greeted Michael when he stepped into the common area.

Rather than find Trevor in a state of laidback adoration over their mind-blowing coital session, Michael found him sitting sloppily on the table with a glass pipe held between his lips and the television remote in his hand. He casually took a lungful while flipping through the channels on his crappy T.V. set, stopping at an episode of Impotent Rage. The polish on his fingers was a sexy reminder of how good he’d looked all dolled up. His languid laugh made Michael smile.

“You wanna’ put that in the bedroom?” Michael asked, letting his hand drift down the other man’s naked back. “We could watch a movie.” He bent forward, his lips anticipating a gentle, eager kiss at the suggestion, but Trevor sucked at his cigarette and shifted, blowing white smoke into Michael’s frowning face.

“I got a meeting in the AM,” Trevor replied. He stretched and got to his feet without another word.

Michael stared, slack jawed. “What?”

Trevor reached for the discarded black satin dress bundled in a heap on the floor and picked it up. He went to the bag Michael had brought and stuffed the article inside. He blew more white smoke out his mouth coolly, inciting Michael’s temper.

“You’re _kickin’_ me out. _Me_.”

“That supposed to be surprising?”

In fact, it really was. The last thing Michael expected, from their playful afternoon by the poolside all the way up to their lusty encounter in the trailer, was to be turned away come the hours they became the closest the most. It was like a three course meal, only dessert never came. He wanted to be affectionate in those moments, to stroke and fondle and caress in the dim light of a bad film until, before the spell of sleep overtook them, they rekindled the softness they had lost so long ago. It wasn’t fair.

Michael went to take Trevor’s hand.

“Please,” he said, “don’t do this. Don’t make me leave.”

Trevor laughed. “Yet _another_ example of you goin’ soft. _God_ , you’re even softer than you were ten years—”

That was the straw. Michael was done with the bullshit. He seized Trevor by the shoulders, pinning his arms against his sides while glaring into his eyes sternly.

“I ain’t leavin’,” he said. “The least your _slut ass_ could do is offer me a bed for the night.”

At the remark, an angry sneer tugged at Trevor’s lips. “How disre _spectful_ of me, Mikey.” He broke free from Michael’s grasp and glared, but didn’t protest any further.

They both got into Trevor’s bed, Trevor sullen and Michael smug. There was a moment where Michael thought he could get away with wrapping his arm around Trevor’s waist, but his attempt was shot down by Trevor’s swatting hand and annoyed grunt, so Michael turned over and scrunched into the covers, closing his eyes.

Fuck it, he decided. He didn’t want to snuggle with that asshole anyway.

 

* * *

 

Sometime in the early hours of the next day, maybe three or four o’ clock, Michael woke up sweating and tangled in the sheets. He was tired and irritated, but not to the point he would abandon his pride and slink back home. No, he was staying the entire night, straight through the morning; fuck if Trevor Philips had a meeting, he was not going to be sent packing with cab fare like some cheap whore.

But he couldn’t sleep. That was when he got up to get some water.

In the little kitchen, he poured a cold glass from the faucet and leaned against the sink edge, feeling the cool liquid run through his esophagus and into his stomach. It was incredibly nice, so he poured another glass.

A minute after he heard a rustling from the other room. Trevor’s groggy voice resounded, questioning at first, then frantic.

“Mmm, Michael… Michael? Michael? _Michael_?!”

There was desperation in Trevor’s tone, but Michael wasn’t sure why. He walked to the bedroom door and stood outlined by the frame.

“Yeah, what?” he replied.

Trevor looked at him in shock, the peaks of his face illuminated by the faint moonlight that crept through the front door window. With a cry of relief, he buried his head into his palms. Then he got angry.

“ _Rrrrr_ , DON’T EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!”

Unexpectedly, he reached for an empty bottle of whiskey near the headboard, throwing it viciously. The bottle shattered against the wall beside Michael.

“ _Jesus_!” Michael yelled. “The hell is _wrong_ with you?”

He was about to say more but Trevor’s heartrending sobs froze the unspoken words in his throat. The sounds were awful. He cringed.

“ _… ever_ do that to me…” Trevor lamented. His breath came in short gasps as his tears wetted the stubble on his cheeks. “I-I thought… _fuck_ , I-I-I thought… oh, _God_ , I thought I lost you—thought it was a dream—you were g- _gone_ —oh, God, Michael, you were _dead again_ —woulda’ _killed_ myself, woulda’ _ended_ it without you—”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” Michael said. He put his hands on Trevor’s face and rubbed at the man’s tears with his thumbs. “I’m right here… I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Don’t leave, Michael,” Trevor responded, not hearing Michael’s reassurance. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again. I don’t thinkIcouldtake the pain!”

Michael hushed him once more, hugging him close. “I’m not leaving. I’m here. You feel me, right?”

Trevor nodded pitifully, unbelievably sensitive yet so characteristically raw—the kind of Trevor that burned down an entire mall in fury, killing and injuring numerous people, crying out for his father to come back and get him. Michael gazed at him with understanding, the same hurt over his own ruined childhood a bridge connecting their hearts, their pasts and the atrocities they’d committed uniting their souls.  

“You feel me? Put your hand here.”

He guided Trevor’s hand to touch the spot directly above his heart and breathed deep. After a minute, Trevor pressed harder against him and gripped his shirt.

“I feel your heart beating,” Trevor said, meeting his eyes.

Michael smiled and nodded, clasping his own hand over Trevor’s. A coyote barked and howled in the distance outside the trailer, the slightest interruption, and Trevor stared firmly at him, his brows creased intensely.

“Make love to me,” he said.

Slowly, Michael moved the hand he’d placed upon Trevor’s own to his friend’s face, cradling his jaw. The meeting of their lips was the only further communication necessary.

 

* * *

 

In the place between awareness and the subconscious, Michael rolled onto his stomach and sprawled out his arms, vaguely mindful of the other man breathing peacefully at his side. He realized more than half the bed had been taken over by his sloppy slumbering, and so he sidled toward the center, pulling the motionless figure of his friend along with him. Trevor groaned in his sleep, but Michael hugged him close. The noise ceased and their continual soft breathing could be heard once more.

After a while Michael didn’t want to stay laying prone any longer—though he definitely liked it. The sun had crested over the mountain range of bum-fuck Blaine County, and much like it, he too had to rise, or at least move. Trevor was a tangle beside him. He found it hard to break that warmth without being disruptive, but managed to maneuver himself so that he was propped above the other man, a position that became unexpectedly enticing.

Trevor’s neck was curved in just such a way that his tattoo, the one of the sparrow in flight below his left ear, was directly visible. Michael hesitated, but wound up placing his mouth against the inked portion of skin, at first dabbing it wet with his tongue, then sucking with the intent to leave another possessive hickey. Trevor shifted with an angry sounding grunt but remained asleep.

That was fine. Michael was ready anyway.

He reached next to the bed for the bottle of ‘Back Door’ lube and snatched it quickly, slathering a palmful along his stiffened length. He then rubbed some more between Trevor’s legs. As expected, Trevor’s head whipped forward, his brows creased in momentary consternation, his eyes sleep-filled and narrow. He had that same frown Michael had seen upon their unsteady reunion, when he’d confessed with sincerity how he’d mourned Michael’s death, when he’d discovered the truth about Brad.

So many, many frowns, the majority caused by Michael. Well, not this one.

He cupped Trevor’s face and kissed him while pushing forward. Rather unprepared, Trevor let out a loud moan, but it was smothered by Michael’s insistent mouth. A few minutes and a rhythm was found that left Trevor arching his head and Michael grasping one if his hands, lapping and circling each finger with his tongue. It didn’t take long for both to call out and collapse a tangled, sweating mess.

Rolling over, Michael sighed and edged close, but Trevor had already moved. An empty space was all that greeted him.

“Where’re ya’ goin’?” Michael asked.

Trevor didn’t answer. Instead, the television in the adjoining room was switched on. The sudden sound of and old VHS tape and player could be heard. Cereal was poured into a bowl and the refrigerator was yanked open. Michael rested on his elbows atop the mattress, baffled. Eventually he got to his feet and found his clothes. After dressing, he lurched into the kitchen with a yawn. Trevor sat perched on the counter, a bowl of cereal in his hands as predicted. He ate while staring at the television set, the movie ‘Lady and the Tramp’ playing at a random scene. Slurping noises came as he emptied the bowl, and he wiped at the excess milk on his mouth with his forearm. Michael watched, mystified, but didn’t take the disregard personally.

“Want coffee?” he asked quietly.

The booming voice proceeding his question startled him.

“RON!” Trevor projected. “RON, GET ME COFFEE! NOW!”

A disconcerted, muffled reply came from the neighboring trailer, but Michael wouldn’t have it. He went and opened the front door to yell, “Never mind, Ron! He’s good!”

Immediately, Trevor was up and in his face.

“What makes you _think_ you can undermine my authority, _tubby_?” Trevor snapped. Out the door he shouted, “ _Ron_. Coffee! NOW!”

He turned as if to dismiss the situation, but Michael gripped him by the arm, determined not to let this calculated confrontation get the better of him. “What _gives_?” he said. He held Trevor’s arm, squeezing to emphasize his point. “Why’re you acting like you don’t give a shit?”

“Because I _don’t_ ,” Trevor replied.

Michael wasn’t convinced. “Yes, you do.”

That moment, Ron came up the porch, scurrying to complete his appointed task. Michael shoved Trevor back toward the inside of the trailer and stopped Ron in his tracks.

“Leave it here,” he said to the cowering man.

Ron blinked, eyeing Michael as if he were alien, but let the paper cup of coffee be taken from his hand. Before he could interject on his boss’s behalf, Michael whirled on his foot and slammed the door shut. From there Michael anticipated the exchange to have ceased, but Trevor called out the window. Ron was listening below it intently.

“Ron! I need ya’ ta’ go down to the _gun store_. We still have a meet—”

Michael pushed Trevor away from the window and shut it so hard the picture beside it fell to the floor.

“The _fuck_!” Trevor yelled. “I _told_ you, Michael, I got a _fuckin’_ meeting and I ain’t missin’ it for your _fat_ , _sorry,_ _ass_.”

Unrelenting, Michael stared.

Then, “ _You still love me_.”

Trevor was silent, caught off guard.

“You do,” Michael continued. “I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t do this.” He took Trevor’s hand. “Say it. Say you still love me.”

The only semblance of warning Michael received before being decked in the face was Trevor’s widening eyes. He staggered backwards, grimacing at the sensation blossoming from his cheek. It wasn’t that hard, but it still hurt. He looked to Trevor, astounded to feel not anger at being hit, but sadness. Trevor, on the other hand, wore a look of pure, violent rage.

“ _You_ ,” he seethed. His fists clenched and his face contorted. “You… _selfish_ … _you_ … _pig_ … _fff_ — _fucking_ COCK! COCK LICKING SELFISH FUCKING FUCK!”

Michael felt the traces of a foreign emotion begin to strangle him. “Because, _I_ love _you_. I do. Y-you know that, right? It’s taken me so long—so long to figure it out, but I finally have. I’ve finally figured it out, Trevor. I love you. I’m in love with you. I always have been an’ I always will be.”

Trevor had his hands stretched over his ears, his eyes clamped shut.

“The day Brad got shot… watching you run… seeing my grave, I… I missed you like I’ve never missed anyone in my life. I love Amanda, T, but God forgive me, if I could do it _all_ over again, I’d pick—”

“ _Enough_!” Trevor screamed, his palms hard against the sides of his head. “Enough, _enough_!”

“But—”

Trevor cried out and punched the nearest wall, making Michael jump. His fist was scraped and bloodied as he pulled it free.

“I swear ta’ _God_ , Michael,” he said through firmly clenched teeth. “If the _next_ words out of your fucking _lying_ , _conniving_ , mouth aren’t ‘Trevor, I’m _leaving_ my wife for you’ then _I don’t wanna’ hear it_.”

The air between them was dead as Michael froze, his mouth open as if to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat. Would the next words to come from his mouth be a declaration of his final decision? Could he possibly say such things, given all that had happened? And what of everyone in his life? What of Amanda? Franklin? What of Jim? Trace?

It seemed there were several forked paths laid before him, though he had in no way been prepared to decipher which one he should take. Path A—Amanda. Path B—Trevor. Or… could he possibly find another way, despite the hardship, a Path C—Both? Whichever it was, it had to be the right one, the one he felt deep in his heart, or else, in the end, nothing would change, and he would be stuck living the same life he’d lived over and over again…

He had to choose.


	2. Choice A - Facts

 

Facts

 

Trevor was as cold as ice in those moments, crossing his arms while he waited, naked back showing. There was nothing left to be said. This unmistakable longing for his old life, the exciting, fast-paced criminal lifestyle, Trevor by his side and no one else to be responsible for, now only existed in his head. His was a family man. That was the life he had chosen. Michael stared at the dirty patterns adorning the trailer’s interior, a soul crushing reality settling into his gut. No longer comforted by his detachment, he tucked his head and fought the moisture threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes, a truth he was unable to voice. It should have been easier now that things were said and done, but it wasn’t, and the tidal wave of anger, resentment, hatred, and self-pity filled his heart. He fought it so hard.

But finally he caved.

Crying was an unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t cried in years—not since the night Tracey had turned sixteen and yelled that he was a horrible father. He’d been drunk, reminiscing about life, about his marriage, about Trevor, and of course that bitter self-pity had taken precedence over his little girl’s birthday party. She had been right to yell at him. He was a horrible father. A horrible person. A horrible friend.

And mixed together, this bitter self-loathing and manly pride spurred him into covering his face with his arms, the knowledge that he couldn’t make up for the years he’d betrayed the one man who had forever been loyal to him shaming him beyond anything he’d ever felt in his entire life. He wanted to stay, but he couldn’t. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t. Amanda or Trevor. Trevor or Amanda. Family or self. Self or family. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t think, couldn’t…

Strong arms wrapped around his shaking shoulders, allowing a reprieve for his constricted lungs.

“Mikey…” Trevor said. “Don’t.”

It was a nice sentiment, that sheltering embrace, but it didn’t help. Those fucking awful tears kept flowing as if they’d been locked away, accumulating for decades, as if he’d been saving them for over the span of his self-centered life to use at this one moment. He couldn’t stop them, and he hated himself for it.

Rough hands pressed on either sides of his face, forcing him to look up. In his blurred vision he could see Trevor smiling kindly. “Go home, Mikey. Go to your family.”

“I just got you back,” Michael said, the tremor in his voice reminding him of his weaknesses. “I don’t think I could stand ta’ lose you again.”

Trevor laughed aloud, but after realizing his heartlessness, hugged his teary-eyed friend firmly. He chuckled some before saying, “Hey, _you_ never lost me. It was _me_ that lost _you_ , ya’ fat snake.”

Michael stiffened and pulled back. “There it is,” he said. He stepped away, disturbed at how a simple slight he’d heard many times before had managed to pierce him now. “Are you ever gonna’ forgive me?” he asked. “For real? Truly forgive me?”

Trevor stared at him. “I already told ya’ I did.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Trevor sighed. “Look. M. I forgive you. I won’t say it again. But…”

“But? But _what_?” Michael snapped. Already he was tired of everything. If Trevor wasn’t truthful with him now, if the king of alleged honesty didn’t tell it to him straight, than he wasn’t sure the world would keep spinning. How could he be a better person if Trevor Philips himself hesitated to be clamorous about his thoughts? It had never happened before, and Michael was petrified.

“What?” he said again, attempting to hide his fear. “ _What_ , Mr. Authentic? Mr. I’m-real-and-you’re-a-fake-piece-of-shit? So far above it all. Please, tell me what _it_ is—”

“I don’t fuckin’ res _pect_ you anymore, that’s what,” Trevor said sternly. He then softened. “I respected you once, Townley.”

Michael was reeling. He hid his face yet again with his hand as if to shield his eyes from the sun, his ego deflated. The anger was gone as well, replaced with an utter sense of loss. Trevor had respected him. _Had_. That one word hurt him more than a thousand ‘fuck you’s. More than a million ‘fat snake’s.

“What can I do?” he asked helplessly.

Trevor looked at him with a serious expression. “Go home to her. And _stay_ there.”

Michael blinked, fearful at first, until Trevor expounded.

“No more _fuckin’_ around on her. No more pussy on the side, no more _late night_ motel rooms.” He looked away, sad, then fierce. “And this was the _last_ time between us. No more. It’s done. _Dead_.”

The finality in that announcement, in that personal _oath_ , left Michael in a heavy state of realization. Though in the past he’d hated Trevor for being everything he despised in himself, he now, in his later years, came to a place of acceptance and understand, of Trevor and of himself. He loved this man. So much. So, so much. For everything he was not, Trevor was. For every lie he’d ever told, Trevor rode in on the truth, like a knight in shining armor to chastise him for his mendacity. In a way, Trevor was like his guardian angel, steering him in the right direction.

He smiled and nodded. “Dead,” he repeated in cheerless acknowledgement.

Trevor returned the smile. “That’s right.” He then playfully tapped Michael’s crotch and laughed. “And it don’t just come back from the _grave_ like it was never gone, ya fat _fuck_.”

Michael actually wanted to laugh, but instead reached out to grasp the back of Trevor’s neck, pulling him in. Their mouths met, slow and deliberate, pausing between kisses, until Michael decided he needed to stop. Trevor’s eyes fluttered open and he bit his lip.

“I love you,” Michael said.

“I know. But you should go now,” Trevor replied.

So he did. He went home, took a long, hot shower, checked in with the kids—both were still so ecstatic over their gifts from Uncle T they had barely noticed their father had been absent—and sat down to watch an old black and white.

Eventually, Amanda walked through the side door into the kitchen, grocery bag in hand. Her hair was swept up in her typical bun, her make-up pristine. She wore jeans and a pink, low riding, low sleeved shirt. He waited, listening to the sounds of her making tea, and got up to approach her. Her back was turned when he came into the room.

“Stayed at Trevor’s?” she asked. Her voice was strained, abrupt.

“Yeah,” he replied.

She made a ‘hmm’ sound in response and nodded her head slowly while looking at her cup of tea. There was a pause, then, “Was it good?”

He wasn’t sure how to take that. Wasn’t sure if it meant what it was supposed to mean or if it meant how it happened to come out. She had to know. The hint of jealousy in her voice nearly killed him. He stepped behind her and turned her around, capturing her eyes with his own.

“I’m done with your mid-life crisis, Michael,” she said. “Other guys, they dye their hair, go to the gym more, go bungee jumping or get plastic surgery. _You_ —you go on killing sprees, rob banks, and then fuck your _psychotic_ best friend.”  

“Amanda…” he said.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him in that moment, but he got down on his knees and kissed her clasped hands. She was speechless.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

The end result wasn’t the best thing he’d hoped for, but it was a start. She couldn’t trust him, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was still with him, but he did know for sure that she still, after all that he’d put her through, loved him. They would work on it. In the meantime, he would sleep on the couch, and she in the bedroom.

After a few weeks had passed and he hadn’t come stumbling home from God only knew where, with the sour smell of booze on his breath and stripper—or worse, _Trevor_ —on his clothes, it became evident he was trying, and she asked him to come back to their bedroom. They’d made love and fell asleep that same night.

In the morning, when Michael was getting his habitual cup of black coffee—no more whiskey—he happened to glance at his phone and saw a text.

It was from Trevor.

He hesitated, opening it to see a small bar indicating a downloading picture. He nearly looked away and thought about deleting it, but couldn’t stand the temptation. It was a self-taken photo of Trevor and Patricia Madrazo, each smiling, Trevor’s smile more of a crazed grin, her’s a gentle upturn of the lips. Beneath the image was a message.

_she left her shit husban 2 b wit me. lov her so much. ill deel wit him l8tr. she came bak but u will always b the 1 that got away 2 me._

_aml_

_T_

Michael held the phone under his chin in thought. He didn’t answer right away, but when he did he wrote,

_She better treat you right or I might have to take an ear._

_M_

He laughed to himself and left it at that.

 


	3. Choice B - Whimsy

Whimsy

 

Propped atop a number of fat books on their rickety kitchen table, an old Vinewood classic flashed about the small screen of their busted television set. It was newer than the other one, larger too, but it was still a piece of junk.

Not that Michael minded, surprisingly enough.

Actually, despite an entire life spent caring about both material possessions and physical appearances, he was getting rather comfortable in the unorganized, chaotic environment that was now their shared living space. Trevor’s trailer was as dirty as ever, but somehow it managed to be homey in a way that his Rockford Hills mansion had never been. He didn’t have to fret over how things looked or if they’d been cleaned, if his loafers were scuffed or if his shirt was neatly pressed, if he had the latest in furniture or golf accessories. Now, all he worried about was if the large bowl of salt and vinegar chips he’d been absently munching on since ten o’ clock in the morning was nearing empty.

It was.

He shifted on the worn couch, his fingers covered in chip grease and his eyes glazed as he tore them away from the screen to inspect the plastic bowl. He groaned, moving to get more, but they were out.

Sighing in exasperation, he eased back down. “Goddamnit…”

Just then, a fat calico tabby came sauntering through the recently installed door flap—compliments a high Trevor Philips—and rubbed at Michael’s shin. It circled his legs, doing a slinking figure eight, then meowed low to get his attention.

“Hey there, Bud,” Michael said. He smiled and picked up the cat, letting it stretch itself on his lap. It pawed at the fabric of his navy robe, then settled itself in while he kicked up his feet on the nearby chair. He sighed, thinking of his lover, and released himself to rub lightly along the shaft, his attention falling on the television screen once more.

So he sat there, cat curled and purring on thighs, his hand leisurely caressing in measured strokes, the Vinewood classic ‘An American Divorce’ advancing towards the ending scene, when, as he was about to grab the nearby rag and expel a nice load—the cat was eerily unaffected by this—Trevor burst through the front door. The cat leapt from Michael’s lap onto the floor at the sudden clamor, but Michael didn’t stop his steady hand, only slowing momentarily to crook his neck over the back of the couch, viewing his partner with half-lidded eyes.

Trevor saw him immediately.

There was a pause before Michael recognized the thud of whatever it was Trevor had been holding upon entering the trailer and the clomp of shabby work boots as they loudened in his direction. He saw through a haze as a haggard looking Trevor knelt in front of him, batted his pumping hand away, and swallowed the entirety of his length. That was all it took. He gripped the back of Trevor’s head and called out in a fit of overwhelming pleasure. It was done almost too soon, though Trevor made an effort to suck at the minimal remaining fluid welling in the divot of Michael’s softening erection, giving added spasms. What was more, his psychotic lover made a show of it too, displaying the clear-white substance on his tongue until closing his eyes and ingesting it with a candid ‘Mmmm’ as if he were savoring the last bite of a delicious meal. His cheeks were now sharper, thinner, the sockets of his once vivid brown eyes hollow and dull. Still, Michael looked on him in awe, as if he were the most beautifully sculpted man ever to grace the earth, David in the flesh.

Trevor smiled up at him, his teeth showing rot, and licked his cracked lips ostentatiously.

“God,” Michael breathed, “you are so fucking cock hungry.”

The other man sniggered and stood up, swaying, his balance and coordination a perversion of its former self.

“And you’re a _turd_ ,” he swiped up the contents he’d let drop previously and coughed, then took out a cold beer from the fridge. “I mean, _Jesus_ , Mikey,” he continued, cracking it opening and handing the beer to Michael before getting another, “when did you turn into such a greasy fuckin’ _pig_?”

“The moment I realized you needed a companion,” Michael replied with a half-smile, taking a swig. “We can roll around in our own communal shit together, happily ever after.”

Trevor shook his head, mocking concern. “I gotta’ call that therapist. He’s _clearly_ incompetent.”

“You’ll reach a very familiar voicemail if you do,” Michael retorted, now smiling fully. “Just remember to put your phone near your ass when you play your messages. Dr. Bunghole needs to be sure of what’s working for my depression and what ain’t.”

Trevor let out a huge guffaw, and in so doing garnered a series of chuckles from Michael. The laughter died and Michael let himself drift, enjoying the peace and warmth of the trailer, the serenity between the harsh bouts of an intense relationship, when a hand snaked through his shaggy hair and jerked his head back, making his eyes open lazily.

“Michael,” Trevor growled. “ _Fuck_ , I want you.”

Michael was about to slam their lips together when a meow interjected. Trevor froze, looking in the direction of the sound, then sprang into motion.

“Bud!” He said, fawning. “ _Ohhh_ , it’s our Buddy, Bud, Bud, Bud! _Who’s_ our widdle Bud, _huh_? _Who’s_ our widdle Bud?”

The cat rubbed its head against Trevor’s face.

Michael snorted.

“Here,” Trevor said, handing him a book while still holding their feline companion. “Like you asked.”

Glancing at the title, Michael nodded. “Middlemarch. Haven’t read that.” He stacked it by his side atop the other books he kept arranged to be read.

“And this one,” Trevor went on, handing him another, then a couple more.

“Don Quixote, War and Peace, Infinite Jest, Tigana, Doctor Zhivago…” Michael listed, observing each. “Nice. Some of these I ain’t heard of.”

“Well,” Trevor said, making kissing noises at the cat. “Your inner _nerd_ is beginnin’ to _grow_ on me. I also got Lamar the crank he asked for, and a little somethin’ somethin’ for myself, eh?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, disapproving of the drug, but powerless to deny its hold on his lover. Franklin was a good enough kid not to get into the shit, but his bud wanted to sell it, and fuck if Trevor was going to reject a business opportunity, even if it wasn’t exactly ‘local’. Michael shook his head and opened the copy of Infinite Jest, intent to escape the sadness of the world around him, when he noticed Trevor inspecting the cat’s stomach.

“Why is this cat so _fat_ now?” Trevor asked, poking. “We shoulda’ named him ‘Michael’.”

Michael smirked. “Very funny, asshole, but the joke’s on you. Cat’s a calico. It’s a _girl_ , you dumbass.”

“Still doesn’t explain why it’s _fat_.”

“Actually, it does.” Michael opened his book once more, absently yawning. “Probably pregnant.”

The initial sentence of each book set the overall tone of the story and pulled the reader in, but Michael didn’t even make the eleven words of the massive novel before Trevor was swooning and squealing as if he were a chick who’d learned his friend was engaged.

“Oh, _Mikey_ ,” he said, embracing the cat despite her attempts to leave his embrace. “Mikey, we’re gonna’… we’re gonna’ be…” His jaw quivered comically, a ridiculous yet genuine display. Michael rolled his eyes. “Oh, Mikey—we’re gonna’ have _babies_!”

“What can I say?” Michael replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Always thought you’d make a good dad.”

Trevor made a sound that implied disbelief and let the cat jump from his arms. “’Bout _time_ we had kids of our own.”

At the mention of children, Michael’s faint smile vanished. He closed his eyes, the traces of a wound afflicted two years prior still evident in his face. He tried to brush it off, but it kept coming in awful waves of pain, the sorrow undulating, easing, redoubling in effect.

He couldn’t see Trevor, but when he felt the sensation of two affectionate hands snaking around his shoulders, he knew he wasn’t falling.

Trevor caught him.

Wet lips pressed against his temple tenderly. “Any word?” the other man asked, a customary question he already knew the answer to, but asked out of care.

Michael let forth a shaky breath. “No. Nothin’.”

“I kinda know how you feel…” he said in a hushed tone. “I miss my Mama…”

Trevor was quiet after that—a conscientious act Michael was grateful for. There were no half-assed attempts to be reassuring, no optimistic speeches about how his kids would eventually call him, because, deep down, they had to love him and always would. There was no effort to supply him pardon for crushing Amanda’s heart, no offer to alleviate the guilt that came along with that murder. Just a sweet kiss on the temple, a quick squeeze to the shoulder, and nothing more.

Yet, as Michael was adjusting to the silence that followed this much deserved heartache, he frightened himself by saying, “We can get away from this, ya’ know. You can stop.”

Trevor paused, his breath noticeably hitching in his throat.

“We can move. Somewhere else. Tropics. Or Canada, if you miss it. It’d be cold, but it’d be a nice change, I think. I don’t need to be here, wasting away just for a call. You don’t really need the business anymore either, what with the money we got. We can move into a house or somethin’… get a dog…”

It was common for Trevor’s tongue to dart about in his mouth as if it were a construction site, as if he were re-arranging his teeth, but it was even more apparent when suggesting he quit the meth. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as he absently scratched at his bicep, picking one of the many growing scab that had developed.

“Will you read to me?” he asked in the end.

Michael’s heart sank even lower, but he nodded and smiled, pulling the other man close to him on the couch. They sat entangled late into the evening. Trevor fell asleep against his chest, whimpering nonsense about his mother, something about carnivals and wild dogs. Michael didn’t wake him. Instead, he listened to the sound of that erratic heartbeat, knowing it would someday cease to thud. The drug would claim his friend, as it did so many others, and Michael would know how it felt to live all alone in a dirty trailer with nothing and no one to give a fuck about him, his family gone and his best friend dead.

For now, though, he would keep making up for lost time, lavishing his broken beloved with ample amounts of pleasure in the bedroom, on the couch, the kitchen counter, the floor, it didn’t matter where and it didn’t matter how. Love poured from him into Trevor. He hoped it would be enough.


	4. Choice C - New

New

 

“I’m sure you got conditions, and I accept that,” Michael had stated, seemingly more confident than he’d felt. “But I got conditions of my own.”

It wasn’t exactly ‘Trevor, I’m leaving my wife for you,’ but it wasn’t the worst thing he could have said. It piqued Trevor’s interest long enough for him to explain his intentions anyway.            Now, after an initial struggle that lasted half a year, he laid out in his bathing suit under the sweltering heat of the San Andreas sun, the edge of the infinity swimming pool giving way to an unobstructed, breath-taking view that was the beautiful city of Los Santos. He sighed leisurely, taking another small gulp of whiskey—of which he had taken the initiative to cut back on a teensy bit. Well, at least when he was with Amanda and the kids.

Now, after an initial struggle that lasted half a year, he laid out in his bathing suit under the sweltering heat of the San Andreas sun, the edge of the infinity swimming pool giving way to an unobstructed, breath-taking view that was the beautiful city of Los Santos. He sighed leisurely, taking another small gulp of whiskey—of which he had taken the initiative to cut back on a teensy bit. Well, at least when he was with Amanda and the kids.

But here, in this world, he could pretty much drink all he wanted. Smoke all he wanted. Eat all he wanted. Fuck all he wanted. Not that he didn’t do that back on Portola if he could, but often times the ability to do such was limited and came with intense reproach from the family. Funny enough, given the space and freedom to do as he pleased, he eventually got bored with overdoing it, and so decided to make the issue of ‘change’, the sought after ideal of a ‘ _better_ , more _responsible_ adult’, into a challenge.

His competitor?

Trevor Philips.

Hell, Michael had lost twenty pounds already. And Trevor—Trevor actually _showered_ regularly, thanks to their little game. It was good. But he was beginning to wonder where the hell his psychotic best friend _was_.

He checked his smartphone, swiping at the screen. The text read the same it had read four hours and thirty minutes ago.

_omw_

_-xo t_

Michael was growing anxious. The drive from Sandy Shores did take some time, yes, but it didn’t take _that_ long. Perhaps his friend had run into traffic, or had gotten a ticket. Or maybe he’d stopped at the Vanilla Unicorn, run into their surrogate son, Franklin, or was sidetracked with some other pursuit—God only knew how impulsive Trevor could be. Michael’s head was spinning with each scenario like the thread on a wheel, letting his thoughts swirl down and down and down until he was thinking of worse-case-scenarios. He checked his phone again and almost panicked.

But then he realized there was no reason to jump to conclusions. He inhaled deeply—Amanda had taught him that meditation began with focusing on his breathing—and sank back into his chair, attempting to be patient.

Ten minutes passed.

The cosmos, as if witnessing this control, rewarded him with the sound of a slamming door, loud enough for him to hear outside on the deck. He closed his eyes, fighting the excitement growing in his heart and beneath his bathing suit, and feigned composure, sticking his ear buds into his ears while hitting the play button on his IPod with his thumb.

He waited, though it felt like another moment would kill him.

The tell-tale swish of rolling glass doors could be heard over the sounds of Phil Collins’s voice. Michael stealthily turned the volume down just in time to hear the clacking of dress shoes on concrete. His brows creased in confusion, and before he could stop himself he’d opened his eyes to inspect what manner of man had come waltzing into his home in _dress shoes_.

His mouth nearly dropped at what he saw.

Trevor stood before him smiling warmly, wearing in a slim fitting, charcoal colored, two-piece suit, complete with black collared shirt and gray, checkered tie. He wore a tie clip that shone a silvery white, complementing his shiny black shoes that reflected, in bright shards, the sunlight off their slick surface. A pair of sunglasses dangled from where his jacket buttoned, and on his wrist he sported a white, diamond encrusted watch. His head was shaved (something Michael had become accustomed too, and even encouraged) but what was most prominent was the silver framed glasses resting atop the bridge of his nose. Juxtaposing this new elegance was the faintest trace of stubble lining his sculpted jaw. He looked… gorgeous.

Michael felt his pulse quicken with exhilaration, but he did his best not to show it.

“Where the hell’ve _you_ been?” he said, raising his shades while eyeing Trevor up and down. Something was different—besides the clothing—but Michael couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “You’re late, asshole.”

Trevor looked sly. “Stopped at Ponsonbys,” he said. “Wanted to _spruce up_ the ole’ wardrobe to go with ma’ new _smile_.”

Michael glanced at him with a questioning expression. “The hell you saying?”

The grin Trevor gave him was answer enough.

“Got my pearlys fixed last week,” he said. “And whitened. Got a massage too. And a facial. Sort of a ‘Gentleman’s Retreat’ type deal.”

Michael rose slowly from his chair, enrapt with the transformed figure before him. He swept his hand through his mane of hair (that slicker style had become an easy do) and barely noticed his tongue as it darted out across his lips. “Oh yeah? _I’ll_ give you a facial…”

He advanced, fully aware of the hard-on poking through his swim trunks, but Trevor stepped back coquettishly, batting his lashes. “I got a wax too, Mikey…” he said. “Among other things in that general… _area_ …”

Michael practically purred, advancing still. “Mmmm, so you’re all clean an’ empty an’ ready for me then…”

“Almost,” Trevor replied, taking his glasses off and placing them on a side table. “Just gotta’ do one more thing…”

“An’ what’s that, baby?” Michael whispered back.

“Gotta’ take… _aquickdipinthepool_!”

 In three strides Trevor was sailing through the air above the crystal liquid, hitting the surface with flailing arms and legs. A splash erupted, causing a wave to cascade over the leveled edge. Michael groaned in exasperation.

“That suit…” he said, mourning. “God, that shirt. The watch… the shoes… _ah_ , Jesus… Fuckin’ A, it’s all ruined.”

Trevor flicked his head free of the excess water trickling down his face, his teeth unimaginably pristine as he flashed Michael a debonair smirk. “I’ll buy more then.”

 “Because twenty grand ain’t shit to you, is that it?” Michael chuckled. “You know, back when we were jus’ kids that kind of money was a dream. Now, you piss it away like it ain’t worth a dime.”

“Can’t take it with ya’, Mikey,” Trevor replied, swimming leisurely on his back. “Besides, I know seein’ me all _dolled up_ in expensive, poorly-fabricated _shit_ gets that stubby hunka’ meat o’ yours as stiff as rebar. What’s a couple Gs for those results, huh? Should try it. Get yurself some _lipo_ or somethin’.”

Michael’s expression remained purposefully grave. He stayed like that for a full minute, frowning, his eyes unblinking as Trevor circled the pool with stifled mirth. He glared. Then, as fast as he could, broke into a gleeful run. He jumped the edge and curled into a cannon ball, sending another large wave of water over the sides. He could hear Trevor’s giddy laugh as he surfaced and yelled, “ _You’re gonna’ pay for saying that_!”

Trevor staggered through the water, trying to get away from Michael’s grasp. “Hono _honohonohonooo_!” he screamed playfully. “It’s the _Mikey monster_ and he’s gonna’ _suffocate me with his folds of faaat_!”

“I’ve _lost_ weight, you prick!” Michael shouted, laughing as he made a lunge.

Once caught—and Trevor was most _certainly_ caught—he yielded to Michael’s groping hands. They kissed, Michael positioned on top, Trevor’s clothed back pushed against the baked cement surrounding the pool. Michael sighed, at peace. Every other week he could come to this retreat, this beautiful, secluded world they had created, and be the easy-going, caring gentleman he’d always felt resided inside. And wouldn’t you know, it helped him be this gentleman in all other aspects of his life? His relationships outside of Trevor flourished, growing like a tree towards the sun. Amanda had come to respect him, to enjoy his company, to _love_ him again. Sure, she didn’t much care for the arrangement, resenting the fact that she would have to ‘share’ her husband, but the divorce made it easier for everyone.

“I understand now, Michael,” she’s said. “I get him, now. And I get you.”

Michael had been saddened, but her decision remained firm. Yet, in the face of his negativity, Franklin had been the one who’d made him realize he was lucky.

“You still got yo’ kids, man,” Franklin had said. “You still get to see ‘em. She ain’t makin’ that hard fo’ you, homie, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Franklin had been right, as he so often was. Michael still had his kids, Jim and Tracey, who enjoyed spending time with him despite the shit he’d dragged them through, who never once looked at Trevor as anything but family, who were willing to except that he was, as Jim had so delicately put it, ‘bangin’ Uncle T’.

“Are you, Dad?” Jim had asked, confronting Michael in front of the projector screen in their living room. “Are you? Are you bangin’ Uncle T?”

Stop _saying_ that. Okay, sure, so he was. So _what_?

“Wow. Just… wow. Hey, no judgment, whatever floats your boat, Pops.”

Jim had been noticeably shocked, but a few extravagant gifts later coupled with the promise to be a better father made him relax with the idea. On the contrary, Lester Crest had no need for persuasion. He’d been dismissive, as if insulted Michael didn’t realize he already knew.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” he’s said in that nasally voice. “You two _shits_ are made for each other. Just don’t let it blindside you into becoming one of those limp wristed, flame queen _assholes_ who listens to show tunes and makes fun of my hair.”

Michael was in agreement about that.

Holidays were spent switching between Portola Drive and their new location on Vinewood Hills; the off weeks Trevor went back to Sandy Shores—Michael complained there was no reason for this anymore, but T wanted his independence, and maybe just a little meth despite Michael’s disapproval—while Michael stayed with the family. It seemed to work out. He was happy.

A new man.

He reflected on this briefly, turning on the large screen TV in their shared bedroom, his hair still wet from the pool. He pressed play and reclined into the pillows behind his back in anticipation of a good ole’, crappy, black and white Vinewood classic. Trevor lay sprawled next to him, nested in the fluffy comforter and sighing contentedly, no doubt sated by their recent romp. His watch was the only thing he wore besides the glasses slanted on his face. Michael patted him on the rear, the red marks of possessive hands still visible on both cheeks.

It wasn’t perfect, but who cared? It was theirs, and it was good.


End file.
